So this is what my friend's brother's wife meant when she said, after a long day at work, you just want to space out or sleep. As to whether they were having enough sex to have that kid they'd already started planning for (as newlyweds).
Pretty much been that over the week. And no, I'm not spared tomorrow either. So I'll leave an interesting thought, for now:
What if every phone in the world rang at the same time?
The power of that collective Hello? ... . Mind-boggling. It could throw the Earth's orbit out of whack! Cure cancer! Bring peace to the world!
...or just be over in four seconds with no one really bothering beyond a bemused look. People will be people.
They had that kid, by the way. She's fairly far along, now.
I leave you to insert your own generic version of quality-not-quantity joke here.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
A little perspective.
An Islamic extremist suicide bomber detonates the bomb he carries in the middle of a packed bus during rush hour.
The immediate explosion kills 23 people, and close to a hundred more are severely wounded as the bus separates into two halves of screaming, fiery metal and slams into congested traffic. Many a limb is ground into so much red pulp.
When he comes to, the bomber discovers himself not in a glorious heaven as he had thought, but in a hellish nightmare of fire, brimstone and fat naked people. Above his head were scrawled the words "Suicide Bomber". The glowing wall he is tightly shackled to sears the skin off his flesh, and a huge, hideous man begins nonchalantly driving iron pickets into his feet. Not for him, the blessed relief of unconsciousness.
As his mental coherence returns long after the the monstrosity has had its wicked way with him, the sorely deluded bomber turns to his side and sees an even more wretched being. Similarly shackled, this person was nailed to the wall at 5cm intervals along his body. That body was covered with ghoulish insects whose purpose was apparent: the person convulsed constantly as if in shock, and the only pauses in his screams of pain were chokings of blood.
Above his head were scrawled the words "Hacked Xiaxue".
...
You tell me. The papers will be reporting her manicure sessions next, at this rate.
To avoid coming across as a jerkoff, I have constructive feedback for the mistress...nay, Goddess, by her own reckoning, of makeup, Photoshop and narcissism:
If she ever needs money, go the way of Olinda Choo and do a slimming contract. Heck, they'll be beating a path to her door after that photograph.
I meant come across as a complete jerkoff, you see. I'd gladly sympathize, were it someone else. While I respect Wendy Cheng for what she has accomplished, I have no opinion whatsoever of her as a person. Do look at her -comeback- post.
Enough is enough. There are better pictures and content to be put on the national papers. Like articles on how to care for ingrown toenails.
The immediate explosion kills 23 people, and close to a hundred more are severely wounded as the bus separates into two halves of screaming, fiery metal and slams into congested traffic. Many a limb is ground into so much red pulp.
When he comes to, the bomber discovers himself not in a glorious heaven as he had thought, but in a hellish nightmare of fire, brimstone and fat naked people. Above his head were scrawled the words "Suicide Bomber". The glowing wall he is tightly shackled to sears the skin off his flesh, and a huge, hideous man begins nonchalantly driving iron pickets into his feet. Not for him, the blessed relief of unconsciousness.
As his mental coherence returns long after the the monstrosity has had its wicked way with him, the sorely deluded bomber turns to his side and sees an even more wretched being. Similarly shackled, this person was nailed to the wall at 5cm intervals along his body. That body was covered with ghoulish insects whose purpose was apparent: the person convulsed constantly as if in shock, and the only pauses in his screams of pain were chokings of blood.
Above his head were scrawled the words "Hacked Xiaxue".
...
You tell me. The papers will be reporting her manicure sessions next, at this rate.
To avoid coming across as a jerkoff, I have constructive feedback for the mistress...nay, Goddess, by her own reckoning, of makeup, Photoshop and narcissism:
If she ever needs money, go the way of Olinda Choo and do a slimming contract. Heck, they'll be beating a path to her door after that photograph.
I meant come across as a complete jerkoff, you see. I'd gladly sympathize, were it someone else. While I respect Wendy Cheng for what she has accomplished, I have no opinion whatsoever of her as a person. Do look at her -comeback- post.
Enough is enough. There are better pictures and content to be put on the national papers. Like articles on how to care for ingrown toenails.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Keyboard withdrawal.
My kingdom for a keyboard!
...They're probably worth about the same, anyhow.
Yes, done with serving my nation for this working year. It wasn't as bad as I'd feared, though not without just about all of the dysfunctionality inherent in the Singapore Army. Mild drama ensued, when something I wrote about a debrief and brought to camp got where it wasn't supposed to be. It requires one to have been there to fully appreciate, but if anyone wants a transcript, it's yours.
Very nice, to have a keyboard at my disposal again. I've mentioned briefly before that much of what I like about writing, is the therapeutic effect of banging away at the keyboard and watching things come out. Sure, in this electronic age, there are those who argue the sincerity, and the deeper bond between pen and paper when you actually hand-write something. But when your writing looks like a troop of worms wasted on too much beer, dancing to techno music...
For different reasons, it seems another group of people would give quite a bit for a keyboard. I found the Life! coverage of the first Bloggers' Convention here to be...a little sad. It's a little hypocritical, of course, and reeks of Aesop's-style sour grapes. But I think the whole blogging thing is getting out of hand. It was a concept that existed right from the start of the Internet, and I'm surprised it took as long as it did to take off. It did, though, and now we have idiot-proof interfaces that allow anybody to become, in a sense, a published writer.
Why the big deal, though? If you think about it, Blogging is little more than delayed-reaction IRC on a grand scale. Ah, the days of IRC. a/s/l and the sending of fake pictures. Much fun to be had. The Blogger's Convention showed itself up to be nothing more than a bigger IRC outing. It was all nervous smiles and guarded conversation, according to the article. For chrissakes, it took a projection screen of an IRC channel, with the people in the same room behind their laptops talking, for the kind of camaraderie and personality Blogging is supposed to be about in the first place, to manifest.
There's what it takes to be a celebrity blogger - the ability to be the same person upfront as you are online. The rest, and I'm quite fully aware of the flak I might get for this, are teenagers that never quite grew up, and bandwagon-hoppers who are in it because everyone else is. Then they realize that it's actually hard work, wording things to make for interesting reading. That's what the Xiaxues, Miyagis and Browns of the local 'sphere have: enough personality for an IRC channel's worth, each.
The exception, recent events have shown, is to be female and none-too-worried about taking a little something off. No dissing of women involved, here. I concur that the best writers are women. Do admit to yourselves, however, that breasts can be a hella advantage in a lot of things. Posting a picture of my chest here isn't going to do much, is it.
Hopefully, some of what I meant to say got across over the high-pitched whining noise in the background. An aspect of myself shelved for self-improvement in the distant future. If you can write, and have personality both online and off, you have my respect. No one likes an a/s/l-er.
In other news, is anyone else as tickled as I, that with circumstances the way they turned out, the main man's name is T.T Durai?
For the uninitiated, " T.T " is an emoticon of Japanese origin to denote a crying face. See, see: Eyes in lines with tears streaming down and a tiny dot for the mouth and and...
Bah, a joke's never fun when you have to explain it.
...They're probably worth about the same, anyhow.
Yes, done with serving my nation for this working year. It wasn't as bad as I'd feared, though not without just about all of the dysfunctionality inherent in the Singapore Army. Mild drama ensued, when something I wrote about a debrief and brought to camp got where it wasn't supposed to be. It requires one to have been there to fully appreciate, but if anyone wants a transcript, it's yours.
Very nice, to have a keyboard at my disposal again. I've mentioned briefly before that much of what I like about writing, is the therapeutic effect of banging away at the keyboard and watching things come out. Sure, in this electronic age, there are those who argue the sincerity, and the deeper bond between pen and paper when you actually hand-write something. But when your writing looks like a troop of worms wasted on too much beer, dancing to techno music...
For different reasons, it seems another group of people would give quite a bit for a keyboard. I found the Life! coverage of the first Bloggers' Convention here to be...a little sad. It's a little hypocritical, of course, and reeks of Aesop's-style sour grapes. But I think the whole blogging thing is getting out of hand. It was a concept that existed right from the start of the Internet, and I'm surprised it took as long as it did to take off. It did, though, and now we have idiot-proof interfaces that allow anybody to become, in a sense, a published writer.
Why the big deal, though? If you think about it, Blogging is little more than delayed-reaction IRC on a grand scale. Ah, the days of IRC. a/s/l and the sending of fake pictures. Much fun to be had. The Blogger's Convention showed itself up to be nothing more than a bigger IRC outing. It was all nervous smiles and guarded conversation, according to the article. For chrissakes, it took a projection screen of an IRC channel, with the people in the same room behind their laptops talking, for the kind of camaraderie and personality Blogging is supposed to be about in the first place, to manifest.
There's what it takes to be a celebrity blogger - the ability to be the same person upfront as you are online. The rest, and I'm quite fully aware of the flak I might get for this, are teenagers that never quite grew up, and bandwagon-hoppers who are in it because everyone else is. Then they realize that it's actually hard work, wording things to make for interesting reading. That's what the Xiaxues, Miyagis and Browns of the local 'sphere have: enough personality for an IRC channel's worth, each.
The exception, recent events have shown, is to be female and none-too-worried about taking a little something off. No dissing of women involved, here. I concur that the best writers are women. Do admit to yourselves, however, that breasts can be a hella advantage in a lot of things. Posting a picture of my chest here isn't going to do much, is it.
Hopefully, some of what I meant to say got across over the high-pitched whining noise in the background. An aspect of myself shelved for self-improvement in the distant future. If you can write, and have personality both online and off, you have my respect. No one likes an a/s/l-er.
In other news, is anyone else as tickled as I, that with circumstances the way they turned out, the main man's name is T.T Durai?
For the uninitiated, " T.T " is an emoticon of Japanese origin to denote a crying face. See, see: Eyes in lines with tears streaming down and a tiny dot for the mouth and and...
Bah, a joke's never fun when you have to explain it.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Going out with a...squeak.
Oh, fuck it.
I leave for camp in two hours.
There goes the bit of pseudo-philosophy I was planning to pen. There never quite is that plenty of time left in which to do things, if you keep saying it.
Procrastination is a very boring and seemingly harmless sort of sin, isn't it? The movie Se7en, if you've seen it, would never have worked if it had featured Procrastination. Because it's never going to kill you. While the rest of the sins are all grisly bodies and eternal damnation, Procrastination's sort of in the corner going: "Uh, alright guys. I'll quit smoking next week."
Still, bad. Very bad. In a hamster with fedora, shades and cigar kind of way.
So, ten days it is. Barring unsavoury encounters with amorous jungle animals, I'll be back then. I'll just take a quick nap now before I leave. I do have my uniform to look over, field equipment to pack, phone batteries to charge, toiletries to package and alarms to set. Oh, and I should get around to checking about my make-up pay.
But hey, plenty of time.
I leave for camp in two hours.
There goes the bit of pseudo-philosophy I was planning to pen. There never quite is that plenty of time left in which to do things, if you keep saying it.
Procrastination is a very boring and seemingly harmless sort of sin, isn't it? The movie Se7en, if you've seen it, would never have worked if it had featured Procrastination. Because it's never going to kill you. While the rest of the sins are all grisly bodies and eternal damnation, Procrastination's sort of in the corner going: "Uh, alright guys. I'll quit smoking next week."
Still, bad. Very bad. In a hamster with fedora, shades and cigar kind of way.
So, ten days it is. Barring unsavoury encounters with amorous jungle animals, I'll be back then. I'll just take a quick nap now before I leave. I do have my uniform to look over, field equipment to pack, phone batteries to charge, toiletries to package and alarms to set. Oh, and I should get around to checking about my make-up pay.
But hey, plenty of time.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Linking Lancing Leh.
This was my first proper weekend - Saturday and Sunday off - for as long as I can remember since commencing work.
So, like any self-respecting man out there, I proceed to get myself thoroughly smashed, paying good money I really can't afford to, for copious amounts of alcohol.
The migration was from Holland Village to Rouge. It is...interesting, watching people while in a drunken haze. I have managed to stop my epileptic monkey tendencies from manifesting today. I am proud.
Sadly, I have no tales of drunken debauchery, although bringing a couple of books into the club did score me a brief conversation. What kind of weirdo brings books into a club anyway.
Me.
Being currently smashed off my face, I conclude that a state of constant inebriation is something to be desired. Reality, for most of us, is rather harsh. We could all do with a spot of drunken imagining-girl-next-to-you-topless.
I will now proceed to drop unconscious.
Coherent? No. It should make for decent reminiscience in future, though.
So, like any self-respecting man out there, I proceed to get myself thoroughly smashed, paying good money I really can't afford to, for copious amounts of alcohol.
The migration was from Holland Village to Rouge. It is...interesting, watching people while in a drunken haze. I have managed to stop my epileptic monkey tendencies from manifesting today. I am proud.
Sadly, I have no tales of drunken debauchery, although bringing a couple of books into the club did score me a brief conversation. What kind of weirdo brings books into a club anyway.
Me.
Being currently smashed off my face, I conclude that a state of constant inebriation is something to be desired. Reality, for most of us, is rather harsh. We could all do with a spot of drunken imagining-girl-next-to-you-topless.
I will now proceed to drop unconscious.
Coherent? No. It should make for decent reminiscience in future, though.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
He outraged your...what?
If you think about it, the phrase is a little silly.
It's usually the men who are charged with outraging a woman's modesty. Because we all know men are sick, perverted, chauvinistic pigs. The rather interesting subject of how sexual violation laws in almost every country tend to apply solely to men is another article on its own merit however. And already done by people far more qualified by myself.
What we are interested in today, is the queer phrasing that everyone accepts automatically. A man outrages a woman's modesty through the intentional flashing of genitalia, molest, sexually intimidating language, or even simply very harsh words. That is, as far as I know.
But when one thinks of modest, or modesty, it's very often in conjunction with being unpretentious, or humble. Dictionary.com yields the following:
mod·es·ty
n.
Ah, the possibilities.
Prosecutor: "Mr Creepy Bastard is being charged with allegedly outraging the modesty of Miss Pretty Girl with Unusually Large Breasts." -cue gasps of shock and...well...outrage, I suppose- "I now call the victim to the stand. Miss PGULB, is it true that Mr CB outraged your modesty?"
PGULB: "...y...yes, sir."
Prosecutor: "And how did he commit the offence?"
PGULB: She bursts into tears, clearly emotional. "I kept telling him I was just an average girl. But he insisted I had talent and looks and was a wonderful person and wouldn't stop! I felt so violated! Why couldn't he just let me be modest?!"
In the face of heartwrenching female distress and a spectacular cleavage, the man gets sent to jail, where certain orifices of his were repeatedly outraged. No modesty was involved. He emerges 20 years later a broken man, and a raging homosexual.
Well, maybe not. That was going to be my introduction for the textualizing of a conversation my ambiguously homosexual partner and I had about our own modesties being outraged in public toilets. Because I'm kidding no one if I say people read my writing for the quality of my powerful, emotive prose. And yes, we are the sort of weird people who have those kinds of conversations.
But no, you shall be spared that. I understand many a young eye could innocently stumble upon this content, and be mentally scarred for life. There is as well the trifling matter that I am sleepy, and have a good video I have yet to watch.
Do keep an eye out for such correct, yet kind of silly usages of language, though. It's entirely possible that I find them funny because of the Uneducation, but well.
Train Station Signboard: "If you see any suspicious articles, please inform station staff immediately." Line of people queuing at the station control with newspapers.
Those retarded banners outside schools saying, "XXX is a value-added school!" . The only other place I see the phrase is at McDonald's.
I do venture a fair bit off course with those. Less of correct but amusing use of words, slightly more...retarded. Who the hell really thinks the second is a good idea? I'm sure all the students will tell their friends and family with pride that they attend a value-added school. It takes a very special sort of person to think it's a good idea. Good enough to plaster in huge lettering on banners all over the school.
I think I met one of them the other day. In an empty - literally, no one else - toilet with twenty thousand urinals to choose from, he came right up to the one beside me. He unzipped his pants, and stared intently at my penis.
I felt very...proud.
It's usually the men who are charged with outraging a woman's modesty. Because we all know men are sick, perverted, chauvinistic pigs. The rather interesting subject of how sexual violation laws in almost every country tend to apply solely to men is another article on its own merit however. And already done by people far more qualified by myself.
What we are interested in today, is the queer phrasing that everyone accepts automatically. A man outrages a woman's modesty through the intentional flashing of genitalia, molest, sexually intimidating language, or even simply very harsh words. That is, as far as I know.
But when one thinks of modest, or modesty, it's very often in conjunction with being unpretentious, or humble. Dictionary.com yields the following:
mod·es·ty
n.
- The state or quality of being modest.
- Reserve or propriety in speech, dress, or behavior.
- Lack of pretentiousness; simplicity.
Ah, the possibilities.
Prosecutor: "Mr Creepy Bastard is being charged with allegedly outraging the modesty of Miss Pretty Girl with Unusually Large Breasts." -cue gasps of shock and...well...outrage, I suppose- "I now call the victim to the stand. Miss PGULB, is it true that Mr CB outraged your modesty?"
PGULB: "...y...yes, sir."
Prosecutor: "And how did he commit the offence?"
PGULB: She bursts into tears, clearly emotional. "I kept telling him I was just an average girl. But he insisted I had talent and looks and was a wonderful person and wouldn't stop! I felt so violated! Why couldn't he just let me be modest?!"
In the face of heartwrenching female distress and a spectacular cleavage, the man gets sent to jail, where certain orifices of his were repeatedly outraged. No modesty was involved. He emerges 20 years later a broken man, and a raging homosexual.
Well, maybe not. That was going to be my introduction for the textualizing of a conversation my ambiguously homosexual partner and I had about our own modesties being outraged in public toilets. Because I'm kidding no one if I say people read my writing for the quality of my powerful, emotive prose. And yes, we are the sort of weird people who have those kinds of conversations.
But no, you shall be spared that. I understand many a young eye could innocently stumble upon this content, and be mentally scarred for life. There is as well the trifling matter that I am sleepy, and have a good video I have yet to watch.
Do keep an eye out for such correct, yet kind of silly usages of language, though. It's entirely possible that I find them funny because of the Uneducation, but well.
Train Station Signboard: "If you see any suspicious articles, please inform station staff immediately." Line of people queuing at the station control with newspapers.
Those retarded banners outside schools saying, "XXX is a value-added school!" . The only other place I see the phrase is at McDonald's.
I do venture a fair bit off course with those. Less of correct but amusing use of words, slightly more...retarded. Who the hell really thinks the second is a good idea? I'm sure all the students will tell their friends and family with pride that they attend a value-added school. It takes a very special sort of person to think it's a good idea. Good enough to plaster in huge lettering on banners all over the school.
I think I met one of them the other day. In an empty - literally, no one else - toilet with twenty thousand urinals to choose from, he came right up to the one beside me. He unzipped his pants, and stared intently at my penis.
I felt very...proud.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
A variety of achievements.
How can a person be busy for ten days on end?!
...your silence tells me.
I confess. I was only busy for nine, including an unreal Sunday where I spent the hours awake from three in the noon to four in the morning on work. A three hour break for an unusually insightful bout of beer with mates was all.
But well, the longest I'd gone without updating the place with crass entertainment was nine days before this. Blinking at the screen blankly last night, I decided to go for the record and here it is! The first double-digit gap between content. The leap between this and the three digit gap is a considerable one but hey, keep the faith.
Not that I'm losing interest in this. Far from it. The problem lies with my personal standards. I simply cannot type four sentences, hit Publish and then look at myself in the morning. Although a vast majority of what I write is complete bollocks, I will not be satisfied with anything less than a lot of complete bollocks. Complete with trademark killer use of italics.
Hence the little catch of the breath when suddenly, comments started flooding in. I insist on numbers you can count on one hand as a flood, leave off. People were actually reading my bollocks, and professing to like it. No money of any sort changed hands. Even I wouldn't sink that low.
Having thought I was writing all along for three people and a small yappy-type dog, and having even that population shrink down to pretty much just my ambiguously gay partner, the comments came as quite a surprise. Whatever strange stroke of serendipity caused it, thank you. I very much appreciated your comments. The eclectic, naked victory dance I spontaneously burst into was almost involuntary.
Though I figure it was a one-off event, I've said before that as a writer, having one's writing vindicated is the end-all of pleasures. Or maybe it's just my sad self. Mr Ancob,whom I have mentioned professed I write well, tells people he introduces me to, all about my excellence. And then he points out the twenty-third perceived error I have made in two paragraphs, back at the office. This is why I don't believe anything he says anymore.
That said, a fair bit of what had to be done is done. Much more time to self. Much less leverage to use against myself when talking myself out of anything that smells like work after a long day. My inner battles, they are spectacular. They are fascinating in the same way, that the extra long, curly tendril of nostril hair you only find out about at the end of the day, is.
...Try not to ask. I will be around more frequently, is all.
...your silence tells me.
I confess. I was only busy for nine, including an unreal Sunday where I spent the hours awake from three in the noon to four in the morning on work. A three hour break for an unusually insightful bout of beer with mates was all.
But well, the longest I'd gone without updating the place with crass entertainment was nine days before this. Blinking at the screen blankly last night, I decided to go for the record and here it is! The first double-digit gap between content. The leap between this and the three digit gap is a considerable one but hey, keep the faith.
Not that I'm losing interest in this. Far from it. The problem lies with my personal standards. I simply cannot type four sentences, hit Publish and then look at myself in the morning. Although a vast majority of what I write is complete bollocks, I will not be satisfied with anything less than a lot of complete bollocks. Complete with trademark killer use of italics.
Hence the little catch of the breath when suddenly, comments started flooding in. I insist on numbers you can count on one hand as a flood, leave off. People were actually reading my bollocks, and professing to like it. No money of any sort changed hands. Even I wouldn't sink that low.
Having thought I was writing all along for three people and a small yappy-type dog, and having even that population shrink down to pretty much just my ambiguously gay partner, the comments came as quite a surprise. Whatever strange stroke of serendipity caused it, thank you. I very much appreciated your comments. The eclectic, naked victory dance I spontaneously burst into was almost involuntary.
Though I figure it was a one-off event, I've said before that as a writer, having one's writing vindicated is the end-all of pleasures. Or maybe it's just my sad self. Mr Ancob,whom I have mentioned professed I write well, tells people he introduces me to, all about my excellence. And then he points out the twenty-third perceived error I have made in two paragraphs, back at the office. This is why I don't believe anything he says anymore.
That said, a fair bit of what had to be done is done. Much more time to self. Much less leverage to use against myself when talking myself out of anything that smells like work after a long day. My inner battles, they are spectacular. They are fascinating in the same way, that the extra long, curly tendril of nostril hair you only find out about at the end of the day, is.
...Try not to ask. I will be around more frequently, is all.
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