Ba Ba Black Sheep

2009-08-27T13:06:00.004+01:00

I finally believe in god, one god. Mr god.

Love, games

2009-06-05T22:48:00.002+01:00

My brother lamented to me when he first got married that there are few good two-person games. Most fun games are ideally suited for four players.

Risk and Monopoly especially are not made to be played with only two players, at least if these two players have to live and interact with each other once the game is finished. Both games involve the complete obliteration of the opponent while the other has everything. There is no near-winning in two-player Monopoly and Risk; the scales at the end are intentionally unbalanced.

There are some games, however, that are suitable, even enjoyable, for two players. Canasta, for instance, is a fantastic game for two. My favorite way to play is still with four players, but the two-player variation is enjoyable. Stratego is another good two-player game, and ofcourse Pass the pigs.

Happy Birthday to Irna, it's her 20th this year, I wish her all the best in her future undertakings.

Menacing Glare

2009-05-20T15:03:00.002+01:00

Do click for a better view, but this was what I received recently from an concern friend. I do not know where to begin. You would think that would be written for me, but it isn't. I'm sure many of you would know now, because news travel fast, faster than the usual internet connection.

Like I mention before, in my older posts, I do loathe social networking sites. You know when you feel something, you will always relate it to a song and currently 'Mario's I don't wanna know' is on repeat in my head.

Holy Mike Ditka!

2009-03-07T06:35:00.003Z

Okay, I am being lazy. Really lazy. I have all the time in the world to write, but I'm spending it playing Football Manager. And occasionally I go outside to play frisbee. But you get the point. I am useless. I can't even persuade anybody to give me a job. I'm employable. I'm fun to be around. Seriously. I am. Fuck you. I am. But nobody wants to pay me money to work for them. I'm sure there are some companies who would take me on, but I don't want to go back to being a rent-boy again, and I sure as hell ain't working in no McDonald's. Anyway, the point is that I need you snivelling rats to help me get back to writing.

So help me out, and comment some ideas

Wed

2009-02-17T20:03:00.003Z

Someone voted no? Why?

Well it’s been a while since I updated this so I reckon it’s about time or should I begin ranting on Facebook? Or perhaps cease my ranting in general and merely moan in the direction of friends?
How convenient, just a day after promising the possibility of some kind of mild peril, I was in fact placed in such a situation. I realise that todays events we're particularly mild but no-one can deny that there was peril involved.

NYE

2008-12-31T09:24:00.002Z

Coma

2008-12-27T08:57:00.001Z

You know when your life relates to a song that your life is not authentic. Oh ye, floodgates. I just realized I will be the world's most loneliest person.

When I would refuse to eat my peas, when I thought my parents were displaying exceptional cruelty by taking me to a Thai restaurant, when I was forced to try hummus in my childhood and bought junk food to cover up the taste, whenever adults would tell me that my tastes would change and my palate develop. I thought the notion ridiculous. I was pretty sure this was the same from birth to adulthood. Well, it's true. Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, onions, and yes, even hummus; all of these are among what often makes it on my plate. If young me could see current me and the things I like to eat, he would be disgusted at the betrayal.

At Christmas time, I think especially of the song "Little Drummer Boy." The first time I heard the song, I cried. It was so beautiful to me. A little boy, having nothing to offer the baby Jesus, plays him a song on his drum, the only means by which he can pay tribute to the Messiah. I think I recognized a kinship between me and the little drummer boy. Fifty cents or a bucks' worth of allowance doesn't buy a good present for a parent, let alone tribute worthy of the king of the universe. As a child, I think I understood these terms (I may just be reading adult reflections into my childhood). In any case, I loved hearing the song.

Now, I think it's kitsch. Overly sentimental, saccharine kitsch. If Thomas Kincade painted a song, it would be "Little Drummer Boy."

Damned

2008-11-01T20:01:00.002Z

things in my room which piss me off

- The empty box of M&Ms in which I placed two discarded smarties bag earlier this week. It sits by my desk, marginally ajar, and every time I catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye, I think it still has M&Ms in it. I get all excited, then discover very quickly that you have to be a total moron to mistake a rubbish for a M&Ms. The upshot is that I acquire a strong craving for chocolate.

Solution: write a reminder to buy more M&Ms when I next go shopping

- The perpetual absence of paper/notepad that makes it impossible for me to write any reminders to myself. I always dump it in the dining room. Which means that I would have to go all the way downstairs to make a note of whatever is on my mind, by which time I will almost definitely have forgotten what it was.

Solution: invest in a home tattoo parlour so I can scrawl important things on my body

- The lack of a bin. (I acknowledge that neither this, nor the paper-problem, really counts as a ‘thing in my room’, but in an abstract way, it is possible to argue that a notable absence can subsist, in a sense, so I’ll pretend to believe that, for the sake of preserving my integrity). I hate not having a bin. Emptied canned drinks and M&Ms boxes are strewn across my floor, half-filled with all the rubbish that I never want to see again. They look forlorn and abused. It depresses me.

Possible solution: n/a

- That god-damned spider. He hasn’t grown at all since I let him stay, and moth season is fast-approaching. He’s such a wank. I hate him.

Solution: make a human friend, then use him/her to kill all the moths and eat the spider

- The ever-growing pile of clothes that is wedged between the end of my bed and the wall. Most of the clothes are clean. Every day, I lift them from the floor on to my bed, in the vain hope that, by the time I want to go to sleep, I’ll have done something about them. Over the course of the day, the pile grows – sometimes by just a few items, other times with a whole wash-load of clean, dry garments. Sometimes, I try to tidy them away into a cupboard. With little success. I’m like Achilles trying to catch the tortoise: no matter how much headway I make into the mountainous heap, it will always grow a little bit more, forever keeping me from completing the job. Every night I shove the mound back off the edge of my bed, then lie back for an hour or so in order to think of a practical way of solving the problem.

Solution: wear all of my clothes each day

- The nocturnal woodpecker-ghost who lives in my wardrobe. When I rest my head to get some well-deserved and disturbingly weird dreams at the end of a long day, he wakes up and gets into action, tapping away like a madman. With all that racket going on, I stand no chance of getting to sleep. Grumpily, I slither out of bed, whack on the light, and seek out the source of the sound. Of course, the pecking stops when I get out of bed so, after a quick search, I optimistically return to the comfort of my duvet and shut my weary eyes.

And he starts again. Tap-tap-tap-tap-fucking-tap. The second time, I’m feeling pretty riled, so I stand around waiting for the sound to start again after I turn the light on. I can hear it faintly, but then it suddenly dies down again as the woodpecker becomes aware of my presence. So I turf out my entire wardrobe, taking care to put all the clothes in a neat pile at the end of my bed, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I fail to return the clothes to the wardrobe. Eventually, they join the stack.

The third time, I lie still for a while, trying to ascertain exactly where the sound is coming from. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that it is the god-damned wardrobe. It simply has to be.

I give it a few more minutes, just to be sure, but still the wardrobe remains the only candidate. Furious and bemused, I get up one last time, just to scour the now-empty wardrobe one last time, and still I find nothing. Exasperated, I collapse onto the mattress, flick the light-switch, and shove my fingers in to my ears in a show of resignation. It takes me a good hour, from that point, to get to sleep, as it is hard to get comfortable with your hands on either side of your head, it transpires.

Every god-damned night. Woodpeckers are rubbish, and ghosts are even more pointless and annoying than mosquitoes and my mum.Which begs the question: why? And why me?

Solution(s): learn witchcraft or kill self

The secret I have not told anyone before

2008-10-25T15:26:00.003+01:00

I am now going to tell you a secret that I have never told anyone.

The train from Cambridge to London was delayed by twenty minutes, so I wandered off to the far end of the platform, where I could eat my burger in peace. Naturally, time flew, and before I knew it, the train was pulling up to the station.

In a rush, I grabbed my bags and walked briskly to join the small queue of people waiting to board the last carriage. I was the last person to alight the train, and as I entered the carriage, I realised that I was in the Quiet Zone, in which audio players are forbidden. I didn’t stand a chance of surviving the whole journey without any music, so I headed forward to make my way down the train. Sadly, there was no thoroughfare through the carriage as there were too many people in the aisles, sorting out their gear and casting magical spells prohibiting me from passing, probably. I made a hasty retreat and set my bags down by the train door, planning to wait patiently for the people to take their seats so I could walk through and into another carriage. Unfortunately, the longer I waited, the more awkward it would have felt to start walking through, and the longer they took to take their seats, the longer I had to wait. Sighing, I leaned my body against the wall and strained to hear How To Disappear Completely.

The compartment was very loud, and the music was barely audible over the top of all the noise, which ultimately negated the whole point of not sitting in the Quiet Zone, but by now it had become a matter of principle. There were still many spare seats in that carriage, but there was no way I was going to give in to their evil will and endure 50-odd minutes of purgatory in the company of weirdos and second-rate businessmen who can’t afford Bose headphones. After about half an hour of standing around, shifting my weight from my left foot to my right foot and back again to stave off leg-cramp, I saw the ticket inspector making his merry way through the Quiet Zone. I fumbled for my wallet and removed my ticket in eager anticipation of his imminent request to see it. He came through the door, and I smiled at him as I handed him my ticket. He said something to me.

“Sorry,” I replied, pointing at my ears: “Daft Punk.”

A stern look crossed his face, and he began to talk again. I already knew that this guy was going to be nothing but trouble, but I decided to humour the fascist jackass, so I removed my earphones and asked him, politely, to repeat himself.

“I need to see your Young Persons’ Rail Card, please sir,” he said.

The bastard was obviously trying to catch me out. “Oh, of course – here you are,” I responded, in a snide manner.

He nodded when he saw it, then asked me: “You do know that there are loads of seats still free, right? You don’t have to stand here if you don’t want to. I’m sure you’d be more comfortable – why don’t you go find yourself a seat?”

I sighed melodramatically. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Clearly unwilling to just let me be, he quickly retorted, “Why don’t you explain to me, then?”
Oh sure, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? You reactionary tit, I thought to myself. “Oh sure, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? You reactionary tit,” I said out loud.

He looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Damn straight you are.”

“What?” He looked angry. I was certain that he was about ready to have me chucked off the train and fined, so my mind raced to find a way to squirm out of this situation. I know, I thought, I’ll pretend to be foreign, and I’ll just blame the language barrier. The plan was ingenious.
“Je m’excuse, my anglais is not so good.” I stuttered, in a perfect french accent.

He looked suspicious. Worse, he started to spout a bunch of incomprehensible jargon in my direction. Suddenly, it clicked, he was a french-speaker. Of all the shitty luck, this guy was clearly out to get me, and would stop at nothing to see me crash and burn. I really hated him.

The way I saw it, I had two options. I could either admit that I lied about being French( well kinda) , apologise to him, and take a seat in that vile Quiet Zone, or I could try and get out of it by faking my own death.

I really don’t fucking like Quiet Zones, so I let out a gasp and clutched my breast, breathing a melodramatic “Mon Coeur, mon Coeur, it hurts.” I let my knees buckle and I collapsed to the floor, trying to make it look like my body was having spasms. Lying there, I struggled to remember why on earth I had ever thought that this would be a good idea. I presumed that I had probably hoped that me dying would have made him feel uncomfortable so he would leave and go and pester some other passenger, but this racist zealot just wasn’t going to leave me alone, and I knew it.

Now, only one choice remained. Insulting a ticket inspector, lying about your nationality and trying to fake your own death in order to make him go away are exactly the kinds of things for which those Nazist train officials would fine me, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to pay no god-damned fine. So I killed him by whacking him with a copy of War and Peace, then I stowed his body in the toilet, which I duly guarded until the train reached my stop. I disembarked the train, when it reached the station, with a victorious smile on my face, and a bloodied hardback in my hand. It was another good day. Absolutely everything in this blog entry, except for this sentence, is completely true.

Guide to being depressed

2008-10-17T06:28:00.002+01:00

I read somewhere, though I can’t remember where, that a startlingly high proportion of bipolar-disorder-sufferers would not want to be cured of their illness, were there a cure available. Whether or not this is actually true, the fact remains that people love being depressed – it’s a form of self-indulgence that, for some reason, makes people want to empathize with you. It’s like having your cake and eating it. It is also a fact that people are fascinated by depressed people. Life is all about being popular. Nothing else matters. If you’re unpopular, your only hopes of salvation are to either create an army of loyal robot-friends, or become depressed. Every tortured soul longs to have bipolar disorder, but if you are one of the unfortunate people who does not bask in the odious self-importance, self-obsession and self-pity of clinical manic-depression, then you are going to need to look into regular depression as a means of justifying your inability to deal with any problem in a mature manner. Because I am such a god-damned nice guy, I’ve decided to take the liberty of writing a guide for you boring, socially-inept morons who wish to be dealt a new hand in the game of life. You can thank me with cash.

1) Develop a vice. Womanising; heroin; alcoholism; untrustworthiness; insomnia; seemingly-insurmountable existential angst; self-harm; gambling; psychotic urges: befriend one, or more, of these devious fellows, immerse yourself in it, then overcome it. It is very important to conquer your vice – to some degree at least – because most people are total wankers when they are snared in the clutches of a destructive habit, and the self-righteousness that comes with defeating a serious problem makes you appear confident, strong, and intelligent, even when you’re still a shell of a human being on the inside. It is also important, if you plan on choosing more than one vice, to opt for problems which complement one another. Psychotic urges combined with a heroin addiction, for example, is not a winning combination. Seemingly-insurmountable existential angst and alcoholism, on the other hand, join together to form a potent aphrodisiac. Throw in an interest in writing pretentious poetry, and you’ve got yourself a winning ticket in the popularity lottery. There is no rigid formula to ascertain which combination will work and which won’t, but it’s kind of like feng shui – you just know when you’ve got it right.

2) Depression makes you appear more interesting and, so long as you can acquire the label ‘self-destructive’ without actually destroying yourself, you are going to become popular. I have no idea why. Even if you do destroy yourself, you’ll still amass a following of teeny, wannabe-depressives, but dying young is severely overrated, so I’d recommend avoiding that. /completely irrelevant and cringe-inducing quote alert/ “dream as if you’ll live forever, live as if you’ll die today.” This transition from ‘loser with good health and a secure career ahead of him’ to ‘damaged pottery that inexplicably finds itself in high demand at auction’ can be somewhat confusing, and it is crucial not to let it get to your head. Keep yourself in check by developing an inferiority complex and regularly banging your head against walls.

3) Prepare yourself – being depressed is not all plain-sailing. Recent studies have shown that very few people are aware of the dietary requirements of wallowing in a state of angst-ridden inertia. Eating disorders are not kosher, but occasionally skipping meals because you’re too upset to eat is an absolute must for all wannabes. You must also take great care not to eat a proper meal more than twice a week – from now on, jacket potatoes and baked beans are the manna and quail in your lonely desert. (Which reminds me, dessert is well and truly off the menu – only real winners eat more than one course. You are not a real winner, otherwise you wouldn’t have needed to get depressed in the first place. You’ll get over it.) This is not easy to deal with, and you will have to quickly grow accustomed to the intrusive sound of your stomach rumbling at inopportune moments if you want to succeed. Moreover, there are certain food groups which are entirely inedible to people with depression. Anything that has been stored in a jar, for example, will now be poisonous to you. Fortunately, the government has intervened to force companies who provide food in jars to label the lid with a warning (or ‘safety button’, if you want the technical term): “Reject if depressed.” This should help keep you safe from a potentially fatal surprise.

4) Ditching those loser-friends who stood by you through thick-and-thin is essential, but be sure to hold on to any friends who are well-connected to attractive people – you can’t do it all on your own, so you have to pick the right people to use as social leg-ups to get you to the promised land of admiration and empathy. Networking is definitely not cool, so you have to be as subtle as possible in your approach. Frequently harping on about how much you hate people and how little you want to socialise has been scientifically proven to be a very effective means of blinding people to your social leeching, but take care to avoid coming across as a whinging hermit, or nobody will want anything to do with you. Fail, and you’ll have to start all over again at number 1, or else risk an awful life of contentment and productivity. Scared? You should be, you loser.

5) Invest in a tube of superglue in order to stick the tip of your tongue to the inside of one of your cheeks. Nobody likes happy-clappy born-again tossers. The smug bastards. Being embittered is crucial, and what better way to express it than with intellectual sarcasm? Irony and satire are your new weapons of choice, and if you don’t learn quickly how to use them, you’re absolutely fucked. If you aren’t witty or intelligent enough to work out how to do it yourself, then you need to drag your sorry ass to the couch in your living room and watch a whole weeks’ worth of sitcoms, then spend the rest of your life surreptitiously quoting and emulating them. You may not like the prospect of sacrificing your identity and selling out, but everyone else wants you to do it, and they’re all better people than you, therefore your views on morality are lame, and you must discard them accordingly.

6) Although any wannabe-depressive needs to own a blog, or some other form of public space in which to shamelessly seek attention, always keep in mind that it is a cardinal sin to post an entry on a Saturday night.

Ma-na-ma

2008-08-30T15:16:00.002+01:00

The conversation is just a vessel for me to verbalise my own thoughts, not to share. Other people’s existential horror means nothing to me. It’s just a story, something to agree with and understand on an intellectual level. The only horror that really matters is my own.

Most people tend to brush death off with tired and ignorant cliches, I sometime stumble upon the chance to converse with another terrified human. And it happens all over again.

Mail Me

2008-08-02T02:26:00.006+01:00

Since Aaron and his girlfriend moved into his apartment nearly a year ago, it has almost felt like there were three of them. There is always some evidence of the third tenant lying around, normally in the recycling pile. His name is Gavin.

Gavin does not forward his mail.

Gavin also has not changed his address with companies who may be trying to reach him, companies whom he may also have worked for. He doesn't get his magazines. He will miss his next dentist appointment. His investments may be flourishing or floundering, but he doesn't know. He will not be able to transfer his balances at 0% interest. Instead, his mail keeps filling the mail bin. It's true that Gavin has more friends than the Schindlers, and judging by his mail, it's easy to see why.

Gavin is what you'd call a man's man (or, in the subculture, "wild at heart"). Or he at least wants to be. Gavin, is almost a self-parody, exhibiting the qualities of the stereotype to such a degree that you wonder if his life is genuine. He receives muscle magazines and motorcycle magazines. Hunting magazines also started making an appearance, as did water sports magazines. Today he received a cigar magazine, one that arrives with less frequency than his other hobby manifestations. We get a picture of Gavin, the Harley handler, the Deerslayer, the jack of all trades who is everything to everyone. It almost makes us look cooler because of our association, albeit in mail only, with Gavin.

I wonder what people would say about me if they saw the kind of mail I receive. Then again, I don't receive mail.

My Secret

2008-07-22T04:16:00.002+01:00

The Secret by Rhonda Byrne, is one of those books that came out of nowhere and became a self help sensation. Rhonda Byrne has made appearances everywhere from Oprah to signings at local bookstores to promote her little book of wisdom. I decided to check the book out and let me tell you, it has got to be one of the most shallow, self serving, pretentious, ego-maniacal books ever written.

The book is more or less about the "law of attraction", which is the belief that if you think positive thoughts good things will happen to you and if you think negatively, bad things happen to you. This book really tries to sell the law of attraction as an actual law of nature. Now I confess thinking positively will generally give you better results than thinking negatively, after all if you think you will fail chances are you really aren't giving it your all. This book however says that thinking positively is like a genie in a bottle where if you wish it and think positively enough you will get what you want. No work involved, just think positive and everything will fall into place! Hey it's a law of nature after all. So if I think positively enough I can fly just like Superman.

This book is littered with quotes from various other self help gurus which basically say how wonderful and amazing the Secret is. The quotes don't really don't say how wonderful a person you are. They also try and convince you how renown historical figures have used the secret for positive results, such as Einstein or Beethoven. Yes I'm sure Einstein must have been thinking positively that they wouldn't use his research to create an atomic bomb.

Rhonda Byrne even tries to rationalize disasters and tragedies. Here's a direct quote from her book.

"Often when people first hear this part of the Secret they recall events in history where masses of lives were lost, and they find it incomprehensible that so many people could have attracted themselves to the event. By the law of attraction, they had to be on the same frequency as the event. It doesn’t mean they necessarily thought of that exact event, but the frequency of their thoughts matched the frequency of the event. If people believe they can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they have no control over outside circumstances, those thoughts of fear, separation, and powerlessness, if persistent, can attract them into being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

If only those those Jewish people in Nazi Germany would have thought a little more positively perhaps the holocaust never would have happened. Rhonda Byrne is a LOON.

Another thing about the secret is how insane some of her theories are, such as her thoughts on weight gain.

"Food is not responsible for putting on weight. It is your thought that food is responsible for putting on weight that actually has food put on weight."

"Food cannot cause you to put on weight, unless you think it can."

I guess I can gorge myself on 300 cupcakes since it won't be the calories, it was just me thinking wrong way. Speaking of weight gain Rhonda Byrne also teaches us valuable lessons on how to better ostracize people who aren't of an ideal weight.

"Make it your intention to look for, admire, and inwardly praise people with your idea of perfect-weight bodies. Seek them out and as you admire them and feel the feelings of that-you are summoning it to you. If you see people who are overweight, do not observe them, but immediately switch your mind to the picture of you in your perfect body and feel it."

Yes instead of judging people on their own merits or personalities we should just go with their outward appearance.

I absolutely loathe this book and how anyone can see any kind of positive message in it is beyond my comprehension.

Facebook

2008-07-14T18:34:00.002+01:00

Being derogatory towards Facebook is a lot like breathing, in the sense that everybody does it, but nobody does it as well as I do. And I hate the vast majority of people who do it.

Most Facebook whingers are the self-professed "random" or "totally mental" types who actually love Facebook with a passion, but want to look like they are so completely bonkers that they can't control their own actions.

I am yet to figure out precisely why people think that "randomness" is funny. Surrealism can be funny. I use it a lot. I am really funny. Surrealism is a lot like whinging about Facebook and breathing and shark-wrestling, in the sense that everybody does it, but nobody does it as well as I do.

I like certain elements of Facebook. It is useful for contacting groups of people in one go - for example, to invite them to a party, or to discuss housing arrangements, or arrange a terrorist attack, or whatever I do. It's funny how people regard a visit to an unfamiliar webpage as a journey. An undertaking that requires a concerted effort. It's no problem to browse Facebook aimlessly for hours on end, but by God, to redirect your browser to another webpage, well, that would involve expending a considerable amount of extra energy, both mental and physical.

So I am left with no choice but to update Facebook regularly, since I am too vain to pass up the opportunity for people to say stuff like "you are such a great writer that I am going to burn every other book in the world," or "I would jump on it in a flash, you rippling manstud," to me.

The way I see it, Facebook has only one more use than this. And it is really rather an important one.

It serves as a comprehensive directory of every single person on my "to kill before I hit twenty-three" list. A sort of checklist, if you will. Moreover, it also gives those people the perfect platform to justify my desire to terminate them.

Do you have multiple "Applications" on your profile? Then I am going to kill you.

You fill out chain-mail notes about the films you have watched?
Or a questionnaire about your sexual deviance?
Or your personality type? Or character? Or level of "randomness"?
You spit pop-philosophy and your friends think you're deep?
Then you're fucked.

You have a Facebook pet? Uh-oh.

You join groups that represent your ideologies and self-congratulate with all the other bastards on the wall, insulting opponents and slowly indoctrinating yourself with reactionary propaganda, failing at any point to examine counter-arguments?

You support really important Facebook-related causes such as the "how dare they charge us to send gifts those horrid capitalist bastards it should be free" group and add the "free-gift" application as an expression of your passionate support for civil liberties?

You think that "I hate you reactionary cunts, I am embarrassed to belong to the same species as you," does not suffice as a valid argument against you?

You'd best start writing a will.

You poke people? You're dead
You have the Graffiti wall? You're dead
You have the "X me" application? Why do you want me to kill you?
You have the Superpoke Application? That's kosher. I don't mind that.

You list every band you've ever heard of in your "favourite music" list to show off how hip you are? I hate you more than all of these subgroups. Having heard of a band is not something to be proud of.

Why would you think it was? Knowing obscure bands isn't an achievement.

Stop it. Please, stop it. Bang bang.

You list "random" quotes that you and your friends made on drunken nights out? Try: "Oh fuck, he has a knife, the psychotic bastard has a kn-AAAARRRRGHHH."You list movies and books you don't really like but that you think make you look more intelligent? You really love War and Peace? I'm not saying you shouldn't. Just that you don't.

You think Ayn Rand is a genius? There's no hope for you.

Endostory.

Rook

2008-07-11T12:37:00.003+01:00

Bleary-eyed, the fan is buzzing over the soft piano tone that rings around the hall. Deep in thought, our protagonist is split between the decision of keeping the water running and calling it a 36-hour day sometime during the mid-afternoon, or falling asleep in a couple hours until the mid-afternoon. I look hipsterish enough [hipster = the pinnacle of douche-baggery]. A long-overdue trip to easy street records is in order. I like to think that I have my head screwed on straight, but I am capable of being vaguely self-destructive. I didn't get to sleep until about 4am, because not only was I sort of freaking out over something, I was proud of myself for keeping cool about for the past few days, but because I think I may have developed a slight dependency on her, although I’ve scaled down my dosages significantly.

Rook is one of the card games that my family played. While other families were playing the less-fun, easier, and generally worse Euchre, we were bidding, taking the nest, and sneaking the ill-omened rook card in for the greatest effect (because the rook card is, of course, the highest valued and least powerfuly trump). When discussing card games, I describe Euchre as wannabe Rook.

The worst in my grandma comes out when we play Rook. Rook turns my grandma, normally a sweet, harmless woman, into a vengeful, out-for-blood card shark. Once when I trumped her trick, she called me a louse, a remark that still burns to this day. And despite her being older, her mind is still sharp enough to consistently set her brash young grandson even when his bids are modest. Sigh.

Anyway, why talk about Rook? Because it has some of the best marketing copy ever. Seriously. I wish I could write like this (as you read, read with a raspy, dramatic voice):

"A Blaze of Lightning. A wind turned cold. Beware the power of the Rook. The eerie black bird can make all the difference. Four players (options for two, three, five, or six). Partner or not. You bid. You name trump. You take tricks (when you're lucky or smart). But beware the wild ROOK! When he lands, anything can change.

"A classic game. Easier than bridge. More challenging than Hearts. Custom-designed cards. Gorgeous. Perfect for a dark, stormy night. Bring home the ROOK card game and find out."

喜爱

2008-03-20T17:51:00.004Z

Love, Inexorably

Why is it so hard to love and be loved?

I may be a bit all over the map. I'll try to stay on track, but if I don't, please forgive me; I really do try to have a destination sometimes.

I liked Spiderman 3... for the most part. It was not nearly as good as Spiderman 2 and not as good as Spiderman 1, but it was decent enough for a superhero movie. But right now my goal is not to examine its good and bad points. Rather, there was a strong theme throughout the movie, and this is it: love is strong enough. No, this is not some cheesy passionate love story about one man fighting his way through an impossible battle in order to rejoin his beloved. Rather, it is the force of a God-like love reaching to the unlovable and bridging the chasms that false loves create. At the end of the movie, when Spiderman forgives Sandman, you could cut the tension at my screening with a chainsaw (and the noise of said chainsaw would have been a welcome distraction).

Plain and simple, the act of forgiveness made people uncomfortable. "Wait, wasn't that guy just the size of a city block? Didn't he kill your uncle? Didn't he try to kill you? He deserves to die." And, granted, the rules in superhero movies hold unswervingly that he should've died (the exception here is in the Batman movies; in those, they just lock them up in an Asylum [because Gotham doesn't really have a prison, anyway]).

But Spiderman lets him escape. Spiderman gives him the opportunity for grace, and Sandman takes it. The love and forgiveness in this movie are not perfect. As my friend pointed out, no one in the movie ever apologizes for their actions; they just assume that everything is taken care of, and we as viewers are to assume the same. (This sort of thinking seems to support the love quote that drives me so crazy, "Love means never having to say you're sorry."

This is one of the most ridiculous love aphorisms I've heard, as love often means saying you're sorry more, and sometimes even when you are not at fault. :/

The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is "What does a woman want?" - Sigmund Freud

Pantsoffski

2007-12-17T19:01:00.000Z

I should choose the right pair of pants.

You see, wearing the right pair of pants is an integral part of comfort, especially when traveling to a new place. I can't control weather conditions, or social conditions, or a number of other factors. But I can control which pants I wear. I have always been against sweatpants because of their promiscuity. Also, for some reason, I have this conviction that no one should be that comfortable in public--the comfort afforded by sweatpants, pajama pants or mesh shorts. I practice the same policy. So, keeping this in mind, I chose the perfect pair of pants: a brownish pair of cargo pants, thin and loose enough to be comfortable, but stiff and fitting enough to be acceptable on-the-town wear. The problem: a few small holes around the cargo pockets, exposing the larger pocket at my side.

When I was seated, I looked down at my pants and saw the hole on the cargo pocket glaring back at me. "Mik," I asked, "do you think these pants are too promiscuous?" He gave me one of those priceless Mik looks that made me feel stupid. "What do you mean?" he asked in his exasperated tone. "I mean this hole. If my pocket moves out of the way, you can see my boxers." "No, it's fine." "Ok."

So later, Jack came over because we were all going out to lunch before cs-ing. When we were leaving the house, Jack followed me out the door and said, "Hey man, uh, I can see your underwear." I said, "It's just a little hole. Mik said it wasn't a big deal," appealing to Mik's perceptive authority and offering the cargo pocket hole as evidence.

"No, man, I can see your underwear. You have a big hole in the back of your pants."

Sure enough, there was no seam holding my pants together. I felt back there. Aside from the feel of a different fabric, I could instinctively feel the blue heart-patterned peering from behind the incomplete brown shroud. I was embarrassed, and the prevailing sound (above my groans) was that of laughter. I changed my pants, but the damage was already done.

Regardless of how I tried to avoid it, I was Mr. Promiscuous Pants that day. But it's always this way: I always try to plan things down to the last contingency, but it never works. Instead of trusting God to provide for me, I decide to micromanage. And once again, in my efforts to avoid discomfort and embarrassment, I only end up more uncomfortable and embarrassed.

Oh well..

Tux Tux

2007-11-04T08:25:00.000Z

I'm just going to come out and say it: I hate getting fitted for tuxedos. There are several things I hate about the experience.

Let me enumerate.
I hate the idea of getting fitted for a tux because it represents the flushing of money down the toilet--and lots of it, too. I am, essentially, paying alot to look pretty for a day (a feat which, regardless of the clothes,is easy ;p), after which time, I will have to return the clothes with nothing to show for the money except someone else's function's pictures. My mother suggested that, for as many function's as I've been in, I should just buy a new tuxedo. But the problem with that is a wedding is a girl's special day, and everything has to be just so. A guy showing up in his own tuxedo messes with the feminine order and sets off all sorts of alarms in the female mind, which is, at this point, thinking that the deviant groomsman will stick out like a sore thumb and ruin the whole day. She'll think of her wedding pictures and the off-color tux that will cause all future generations of her family to say, "Why is the negative always smudged over that guy?" I would become a figure of ridicule and also an object lesson. "You budge an inch, *insert person's name*, and look what will happen to your wedding. You'll end up with someone like that guy showing up and stealing the holiness out of the whole occasion." Also, at this point, I'm at the tail end of my matrimonial dealings; to buy a tux at this point would no longer be practical.

I also don't like getting fitted for tuxes for the same reason I don't like going shoe shopping: it is a visible reminder that, in the clothing realm, I fall into the category of freak. The people at Ermenegildo Zegna didn't know what to do with me. "Oh, you're so tall!" they said as they bustled around me, perspiring, muttering under their breath, "What are we going to do with you?" Well, they had me try on several different things--all of which, mind you, only brought out the freakish qualities of my appearance and made me feel like the things woven into my genetic code were the result of years and years of obstinacy, all the consequence of foresight in my looking forward to making their lives a living hell the moment I walked into their store. "That's too short; we need something longer." So they fetch something longer and I looked like a twelve-year-old boy in his father's closet. The women then bicker about how to hide my unsightliness. One of them says, "I'm glad I wore my high heels today!" They poke and press and order me around, taking measurements and then taking them again, making me feel like freight to be shipped rather than a human to be dressed.

With every flick of the pen as they write my measurements, I feel judged and evaluated solely on that basis, as my data will be transferred to their store's mainframe supercomputer where I am nothing more than another set of zeros and ones (except zeros and ones with larger proportions than the others).

I'm Glad That I'm Not Alone

2007-10-23T06:13:00.000+01:00

I refer to my tendency to be disoriented in shopping environments. I was at the grocery store on tuesday night to refuel for dota, when I remembered that we were out of chocolates. I couldn't find the row for a while, but when I arrived, I saw several older men, just as disoriented as I was, meandering up and down the food storage aisle as if they were condemned to purgatory. The only way to atone for their sins would be to find the items they were looking for, a happy ending that did not seem on the horizon. No one was happy to be there. We were all drones, awaiting commands from the queen bee. Unfortunately, the source of the queen's commands is also what is causing so many bees to drop dead around the world. This only complicates things, as you can imagine. I joined in the dance and snatched some brand of chocolates, only to be disgusted at their price. I decided it would be more economical to buy cookies.

An experiment

2007-10-10T19:15:00.000+01:00

I remember an experiment I tried years ago. It started in high school as an eccentricity and carried over into my first years in uni. Here was the deal:

People shook hands with me all the time, even when a handshake wasn't merited. It seemed like the handshake was an awkward space filler in conversation. The value of the handshake was at an all-time low. So my idea was, when someone tried to shake hands with me and a hearty handshake was not warranted, I would shake their hand with only two fingers. Each person with whom I shook hands in this way immediately knew that something was awry. I unapologetically offered a simple explanation: "The value of the handshake has gone down, and I am going to bring it back." Weird looks. Avoidance. But the point was made.

Over time, people just seemed to accept this quirk. I broke the experiment sometimes as necessary (for instance, job interviews and other venues where such treatment would be seen as disrespectful ["When in Rome..."]) or to demarcate special occasions: birthdays, weddings, funerals. But I stuck to my guns for the most part. And Truth (note the capital T) won out. One arbitrary day, I decided the experiment was over. I shook hands normally, and people noticed. In fact, to this day, I still sometimes receive comments like, "Wow! A real handshake!" (Granted, not as often as at first.) I'd like to take this response as a sign of success.
Why do I say this now?

There is a new--or, at least, unresolved--evil in our world: Gratuitous use of the exclamation point. (This post is not addressed against the occasional exclamation point user; please do not take this personally [unless, of course, you use exclamation points needlessly and this applies directly to you; in that case, please remove the 1 key from your keyboard and start using Roman numerals].) This evil is perpetuated by online communications, mostly, or by overenthusiastic people. I don't care who you are--life is not so exciting that every sentence merits an exclamation point.

However, even one exclamation point ending every sentence is not my main grievance. What has come about in our culture is the need to multiply exclamation points, making one exclamation point lose its purpose (to add special emphasis to a thought). An analogy will serve us well here: Years ago, on my Christmas lists, I used a star method to evaluate the want-level for certain items. A lego set might receive five stars, whereas the clothes my mother made me put on the list would receive one. Regardless, by using multiple stars on each item, all the stars lost their value, and I often wound up receiving sweaters (the bane of a young boy wanting to be "cool," especially when all his friends were getting Lego pirate ships and stuff).

A similar thing is happening with exclamation points: It is no longer enough to end a sentence with one exclamation point to show excitement. One exclamation point is viewed as humdrum. It elicits the response, "Oh, that bad, huh?" rather than, "I'm so happy for you^" With more and more exclamation points being necessary to show enthusiasm, I think we all can see where this is leading. Full pages eventually will be exclamation points following a single sentence, just so the reader is assured that the writer is, in fact, happy.

Therefore, I propose to no longer use an exclamation point unless it is merited. However, as this will make me appear cold (and I'm not), I propose to substitute the exclamation point of politeness (e.g., "Hello!" or "Have a great day!") with a new character: ^ (e.g., "Hello^" or "Have a nice day^"). Perhaps in this small way, I can undo the seemingly irreparable damage to our language.

Have a great day^ Use exclamation points responsibly!*

Confession Of an Ramirez Nair

2007-09-18T14:39:00.000+01:00

From the moment I achieved consciousness I knew that I was a genius. My very first thought was "I am the smartest person alive." This discovery was immediately succeeded by my second thought: "I have just completed one entire thought, which seems to be more than most people have." Feeling pleased with my intellectual superiority, I was somewhat surprised by my third thought, which was the realisation that I needed my diaper changed.

For days, weeks even, I was patronized by my parents, who insisted upon having entire conversations of "goo goo, ga ga." I also found the television programmes I was forced to watch to be highly condescending. Was I to be intrigued by the seemingly challenged dinosaur bumbling across the screen? Was I to care whether or not Steve was able to locate all of Blue's Clues? He'd have to be blind not to. My mother once asked which programme I wanted to watch. Finding them all equally banal, I replied, "I don't give a damn," but as my vocal abilities were still in a most primitive state, it was interpreted as "Mama."

Within a month of my birth, my parents began to parade me in front of other babies. I found the others of my age, I avoid the word "peers" for obvious reasons, to be frightfully stupid. I was plopped beside another infant to whom I said "Salutations, fellow baby." Despite my more than adequately polite greeting, he began to weep. Over the next few years this situation repeated itself myriad times with various babies. I would greet them politely, and they would begin to bawl. Sometimes I would be visited by my grandmother, and despite her advanced age, she was not significantly more intelligent than my infantile acquaintances. Much like my parents, she too had a vocabulary seemingly comprised entirely of goo's and ga's. It was enough to drive a baby mad.

Before bed, my parents would read to me from the most dismal books imaginable. Goodnight Moon was not an uncommon reading. The book is essentially, as the title implies, the writr saying goodnight to the moon. Thrilling, I know. I wished desperately that they would, just for once, read to me something of interest. Proust perhaps. But no, night after night it was Goodnight Moon.

It was all becoming too much to stand. One day after my nap, I swallowed my batman toy's grappling hook in an attempt to take my own life. My effort was unfortunately foiled when my visiting aunt performed the baby-heimlich on me, and the small, plastic tool was hastily dislodged from my throat.

Towards the conclusion of my second month, I fell in love. I was taken to a day care centre and placed beside the most beautiful girl I had ever beheld. While she had not yet grown hair, she had a perfectly shaped skull with very little in the ways of a soft spot. I was taken aback by her glamourous clothing, which was pink, and had footsies built into the pants. To her I began reciting Byrons "Don Juan," which I had, by this point, committed to memory. She did not respond, and to this day I am uncertain whether I was spurned, or if she was simply not yet able to comprehend language. Either way, I wouldn't see her for some amount of time, and that was fine with me. Bitch.

At some point, my parents purchased for me a series of videos entitled "Baby Mozart," intended to educate babies on the topic of classical music. I could not imagine any of the babies I had met being interested in Mozart; they all seemed too intrigued by the sounds of their own whining. I thought it was a nice gesture on my parents' part, but I was quickly bored with Mozart's predicatable melodies and inflexible diatonism. I remember wishing that my parents had bought "Baby Wagner."

At seven months of age I was introduced to sports. I did not have the inherent aversion to sports possessed of most of those of equal intellect except for football ofcourse. I was restricted to rolling a rubber ball across the parlour floor. It required no coordination or skill and was a waste of my time, but still I was forced to partake, lest I become lazy, according to my parents.

After an entire year of being treated as a pet more so than a human, it was the time of my first birthday. My parents said that they would arrange a party, and though I was well aware of their questionable taste, I was looking forward to this soiree. Of course there would be guests, but I wondered who they would be, as I had no friends to speak of. I pondered my upcoming ball. Certainly I would not be hobnobbing with the socialite elite, but perhaps at least enjoying hors d'oeuvres with others of at least moderate intelligence. This would be my opportunity to show my true genius to others who could appreciate and understand me. Or so I thought, at least. Nothing could have prepared my for the grotesque bash that ensued.

On the first anniversary of my birth I was set at the head of the kitchen table. I looked to my right to see who was seated at the place of honour beside me. Fathom, if you can, my terror when I turned my head to see the tearful child of my first acquaintance, who spurned my salutations with cries. To my left, the heartless harlot who had so coldly ignored my Byronic recitation. Perhaps the food would be good, I told myself. This last hope was shattered when I was presented with the gaudiest cake ever to soil an oven, and on top of the cake was that horrible, purple, bumbling dinosaur I so despised from television.

My throat tightened. My hear pounded. My parents said "We have a very special guest." Was this all a joke until now? Who could the guest be? Perhaps a great innovator of the arts or sciences. I was excited. Through the door, however, walked the dinosaur, from television and from my cake. He spoke in his slow, dumb voice, and bumbled about, precisely as I'd noted before. "Well who's the birthday boy?" he muttered. I remained silent, but my parents gave me up. He approached, and I cringed with every step he took. He began his awful, cacophonous rendition of "Happy Birthday." My brain-dead guest screamed with glee. I took my head in my hands and waited for him to leave, and tried to figure out how many more years of this I needed endure before succumbing to the sweet release of death.

Sex

2007-08-29T07:14:00.000+01:00

In the incredibly oversaturated world that we in today, everybody is aware of the well-known fact that 'sex sells'. No matter how many people try to protest it and speak out about it as not being "right", the truth is we all feed into it. For example, Beyonce being considered the ultimate sex symobol. Now compare Beyonce to someone such as Reese Witherspoon. Reese, in my opinion is gorgeous, but in a sweetheart, cute, girly kind of way. And on the other hand, Beyonce has the curves that make the men drool, the diva attitude. I believe that only a selective and limited few posses the power to totally exude physical sex appeal as well through their state of mind.

So my boys and I came from seeing Transformers (awesome film by the way), and as we were walking, these girls with obvious sex appeal approached my homeboy.

So my boys were literally staring at these girls, practically drooling all over themselves, and that's when I snapped out of the trance. Something much greater than my eyes shifted my perception and thus my occipital lobes also made the adjustment and I then turned my head to look away followed by my body. I didn't want to look at them because my attractive to their "sex appeal" changed. Why so?

So there are two ways of managing perception. I like to use the firefighter example. Fire is hot and can kill us. Most of our fight or flight instincts would see the fire, run from it, or be trapped by the fear of flames. Just like my homeboys and those girls, we react with the fight (let's talk to/mack/sleep with them) or we flight (let's run/ignore/avoid) them. These are our two primal responses, I argue. Like the firefighter, we have two more options or perspectives. We can act as if the woman isn't there, which is unlike flight in the sense that you are still engaging with a woman, but her effects on you are diminished. So the firefighter engages the fire, but his or her sensory motors are self-dampened. Men tend to do that just as in the example above about having a female as a superior officer or colleague. A man may walk into an environment wherein there may be women he would be naturally have an attraction towards, but if he bushes the right buttons on his brain, the effects of his attraction can neutralized, but that would also involved temporarily shutting off many of his senses, or at least dulling them, so like the firefighter, his skin may make contact with flames, he may choose to cut off certain sensations.

As mentioned, there is also a fourth option. A firefighter that ventures into a building in flames, if they have dampened their senses, may not be proactive in their search for solutions. I believe that there are certain parts of our brains that are also dampened when we cut ourselves off from our senses, it's the ability to see the fire as it is and yet still engage the fire as if one is going through the fire or around the fire, above, or below it.

A man might be in an environment wherein he is approached by women he finds attractive, but instead of cutting off his senses, he may choose to "manage" his senses so that they don't experience an overload and wrongful judgments are made to satisfy sensory tastes. Metaphorically, that man becomes stronger than his eyes. He doesn't choose to stare at certain aspects or analyze deeply with them, or he chooses not too look away. Instead of choosing to act as if he is blind, he sees the full picture and thus his perception becomes aware of the object as he knows the object is aware of him, but isn't consumed by the object or lost in his awareness.

Okay, most of the stuff I just wrote about is highly metaphorical and speculative, but it does shed light to what a man considers sex appeal and what hold sex appeal can have on them depending on how that a person perceives that sex appeal. Using a dialectic approach, I can close this blog posting confidently.

Sex appeal is great, but I speak on behalf of a caliber of men who also "want more" than just what the eye tricks them to just see. We want the girls we can make family homes movies with. For many of us, using a different perception of sex appeal, while other men want to buy the movie, we'd rather rent the dvd.

I'm much stronger than my eyes.

On the lighter side of things..

10 TRUTHS BLACK AND HISPANIC PEOPLE KNOW, BUT WHITE PEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:

1. Elvis is dead.
2. Jesus was not White.
3. Rap music is here to stay
4. Kissing your pet is not cute or clean.
5. Skinny does not equal sexy.
6. Thomas Jefferson had black children.
7. A 5 year child is too big for a stroller.
8. N' SYNC will never hold a candle to the Jackson 5
9. An occasional BUTT whooping helps a child stay in line.
10. Having your children curse you out in public is not normal.

10 TRUTHS WHITE AND BLACK PEOPLE KNOW, BUT HISPANIC PEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:

1. Hickey's are not attractive.
2. Chicken is food, not a roommate.
3. Jesus is not a name for your son.
4. Your country's flag is not a car decoration.
5. Maria is a name but not for every other daughter.
6. "Jump out and run" is not in any insurance policies.
7. 10 people to a car is considered too many.
8. Buttoning just the top button of your shirt is a bad fashion statement.
9. Mami and Papi can't possibly be the nickname of every person in your
family
10.Letting your children run wildly through the store is not normal.

10 TRUTHS WHITE AND HISPANIC PEOPLE KNOW, BUT BLACK PEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:

1. O. J. did it.
2. Tupac is dead.
3. Teeth should not be decorated.
4. Weddings should start on time.
5. Your pastor doesn't know everything.
6. Jesse Jackson will never be President.
7. RED is not a kool-aid flavor, it's a color.
8. Church does not require expensive clothes.
9. Crown Royal bags are meant to be thrown away.
10.Your rims and sound system should not be worth more than your car.

Fuck Sight

2007-08-13T03:04:00.001+01:00

Over-crowded, unfriendly, stupidly expensive and a fuck sight more stressful than most cities – there are many reasons to hate London and as you get pummelled into the ground on a daily basis by the shit you have to endure you constantly ask yourself whether you wouldn't be better off somewhere quieter, cheaper and a lot less hectic. But then you go somewhere amazing and you think to yourself I could not get this anywhere else in the world. London, despite all its faults is a totally buzzin cool happening place that thrives on its own hectic stimulation – this was never more accurately demonstrated than at the party lastnight..

I don't know how the zeitgeist works. I 'm not even totally sure what it means but I always find it strange how the collective unconscious synchronizes and everyone seems to get into the same thing at the same time. It is often a reaction to what has gone before but not always. Suddenly everyone is bang into the 50s/60s thing. The look is back on the streets and the sounds are back on stereos. How does it happen? Are we all just one giant being split into millions of different entities seemingly separate but in reality, joined, connected and vibing as one? I can't prove it but I liked to think so.

So we descended the tight stairwell and walked straight into a scene from Quadrophenia. I had watched that film so many times and always wanted to go to one of those dark, packed little underground venues with everyone grooving and rockin out to dancefloor fillers that you just can't stand still to. And all of a sudden, here I was. It was happening.

It was just eleven but it was already busy and people were already dancing. And it just got busier and busier. I'm not sure how clubs manage to fill up without you noticing but suddenly you look round and its jam packed. All of a sudden it was heaving but rather than feel over-crowded it just added to the buzz. A throng of people sandwiched together shaking themselves to the tunes of yesteryear. But this was not a nostalgia trip. For a start no-one in the room could have been there first time round. This was just a group of people joined by a desire to dance to decent music.

And so I danced and I danced and I danced and then I had a breather and then I danced and then umm danced some more.

Pics will be uploaded as soon as i get em'.. Till then cheers.

S > M

2007-08-09T02:29:00.000+01:00

Less the entertainment; I humbly bring a path. Everything your mind may come to understand is either false or falsifiable. Everything. To share a sort of political correctness, the foundation of all science is based on this concept. Theory may only be proven false by observation; never true. Some axioms may be true. How can you reach an absolute truth?

Let's take you back; way back, when you were a child. Bring into this hazy picture a wise someone that says to you "Look at this car. You stand at the front of this car wanting only to go back to playing. Then this wise person said to you "There is a muffler." You might say "Liar, that's a car." Until this day you knew the concept of car and not the muffler, you either do not approve hastily or seek openly with this wise man this thing called "Muffler."

Although there appears to be a muffler upon further inspection, both the car and the muffler can be proven false with greater understanding of the design we are captured by and seek within. We find atoms and millions of kingdoms living upon the "Muffler." Oh why call this great expanse merely a "Muffler?" Should not the creator of such a wondrous breadth be given the honor in naming the product? We say "Car;" yet, the parts of the car in sequence of original elemental names are closely the proper monogram. As we were designed to design the car and name the metal beast "Car." We say red. The original color maintains another designation given by the designer of hue and finder of the color range itself. See beyond what your eyes impel.

Today, if someone said "The sun holds a black hole at its center connecting three other stars;" we could only prove false this proposition with the One that created or knew the Designer of the sun. What is design without a Designer?

We perform many tasks with a pre-determined level of complexity as our only guide to confirm a designer is responsible for the design or not. Crypto-analysis, anthropology, and engineering all point toward the path of a human level to understand this concept.

The sun burns hydrogen as fuel. Spinning, throwing plasma along magnetic field-lines that curl then straighten, re-enter its breast; holding 98% of it's original fuel, bequeathing creative light. Much like a car; it needs fuel or perhaps periodic maintenance repair. If matter were the eternal unchanging force required for us to communicate with each other this enormously great day; the hydrogen in the universe would be burned out by now.

Spirit is greater than Matter.
S > M

Only a severe case of narcissistic pride, ignorance, or evil will try to reverse the above equation. There was a begin; in specific, the Primemover. This begin move toward all you may ever interpret is immediately responsible for your eyes scanning this text. Full disclosure of any truth is beyond our reach until the Primemover takes us within His wing. Till that time, my best attempt is realized by seeking the personality of the One who designed our light, practicing with my parents (play creators) for this meeting, or relaxing within my space learning.
What we believe is most important of all; as, our beliefs are directly linked with our future. Believe the end is better than the begin with me.

The Placed 'X'

2007-07-26T06:16:00.000+01:00

Place a X by all the things you've done and send it to all of your friends. A bit of fun. Takes a while though...

(x) smoked a cigarette
(x) crashed a friend's car
( ) stolen a car
(x) been in love
(x) been dumped
(x) shoplifted
(x) been fired
(x) been in a fist fight
(x) snuck out of your parent's house
(x) had feelings for someone who didn't have them back
(x) been arrested
(x) gone on a blind date
(x) lied to a friend
(x) skipped school
(x) seen someone die
(x) had a crush on one of your internet friends
(x) been to Canada
( ) been to Mexico
(x) been on a plane
( ) purposely set a part of yourself on fire
(x) eaten sushi
(x) been skiing
(x) been at a concert
(x) taken painkillers
(x) love someone or miss someone right now
(x) laid on your back and watched cloud shapes go by
(x) made a snow angel
( ) had a tea party
(x) flown a kite
(x) built a sand castle
(x) gone puddle jumping
(x) played dress up
(x) jumped into a pile of leaves
(x) gone sledding
(x) cheated while playing a game
(x) been lonely
(x) fallen asleep at work/school
( ) used a fake ID
(x) watched the sun set
( ) felt an earthquake
(x) slept beneath the stars
(x) been tickled
(x) been robbed
(x) been misunderstood
(x) petted a reindeer/goat/kangaroo
(x) won a contest
(x) run a red light/stop sign
(x) been suspended from school
(x) been in a car crash
(x) had braces
(x) felt like an outcast/third person
(x) eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night
(x) had deja vu
(x) danced in the moonlight
(x) liked the way you looked
(x) witnessed a crime
(x) questioned your heart
( ) been obsessed with post-it notes
(x) squished barefoot through the mud
(x) been lost
(x) been on the opposite side of the country
(x) swam in the ocean
(x) felt like dying
(x) cried yourself to sleep
(x) played cops and robbers
(x) recently colored with crayons
(x) sung karaoke
(x) paid for a meal with only coins
(x) done something you told yourself you wouldn't
(x) made prank phone calls
(x) laughed until some kind of beverage came out of your nose
( ) caught a snowflake on your tongue
(x) danced in the rain
(x) written a letter to Santa Claus
( ) been kissed under the mistletoe
( ) watched the sun rise with someone you care about
(x) blown bubbles
(x) made a bonfire on the beach
(x) crashed a party
(x) gone rollerskating
(x) had a wish come true
( ) jumped off a bridge
(x) ate dog/cat food
( ) told a complete stranger you loved them
(x) kissed a mirror
(x) sang in the shower
( ) had a dream that you married someone
(x) glued your hand to something
( ) kissed a fish
(x) sat on a roof top
(x) screamed at the top of your lungs
( ) done a one-handed cartwheel
( ) talked on the phone for more than 5 hours
(x) stayed up all night
( ) picked and ate an apple right off the tree
(x) climbed a tree
(x) had a tree house
( ) scared to watch a scary movie alone
(x) believe in ghosts
(x) have more than 30 pairs of shoes
( ) worn a really ugly outfit to school
(x) gone streaking
( ) gone doorbell ditching
(?) played gay chicken
(x) pushed into a pool/hot tub with all your clothes on
(x) told you're hot by a complete stranger
(x) broken a bone
(x) been easily amused
( ) caught a fish then ate it
(x) caught a butterfly
(x) laughed so hard you cried
( ) cried so hard you laughed
(x) cheated on a test
(x) forgotten someone's name
( ) french braided someone's hair
(x) gone skinny dipping in a pool/hot tub
(x) been threatened to be kicked out of your house or been kicked out of your house
(x) loved someone so much you would gladly die for them..

Damn son..

Last night was a late one, in fact it has been a week of late collapses and early rises. My head feels like it has been beaten in with my own flatly intoned renditions of power ballads from the club few nights ago. My jaw hurts and the sense of shame is overbearing.

Twice in as many days I have tripped back to the sound of bird calls, ordinarily this would be a pleasure but when the dawn light is switching street lights off down the length of road you are walking, casting a murky and angry swell of cool air, beer soaked party heads and rageful early work risers, you start to wonder if in some small respect you are being laughed at by your fellow animal.

If I were a bird I think other than spending large portions of my life flitting between here and the gulf coast, I would invest a good deal of time practicing whistling the latest tv ringtone at rum soaked moronic figures tottering about at times that God himself set aside for animals and crooks.

The way I see it, this whole universe has it upside down. There is no more horrendous feeling than waking up in daylight, the mere switching on of a light burns into my retinas like some archaic form of torture before all those drugs and sack beatings. Waking up in darkness is certainly more settling for the old nerves. I can feel the power being sucked from my very loins and not in that embarrassing fleshy way but in the deflating ebb of the vengeful hand of death. If I were in any other game, possibly astrophysics, I would try and strike the balance, get what we all want.

I feel like doing more survey but me l a z y.

Falling and Breaking

2007-06-27T05:21:00.001+01:00

Night falls... Day Breaks, Sun rises Sun sets, At the crack of dawn - creeping dusk..... falling in love and breaking of heart.... so on and so forth, it sounds so perfectly true expression has a equally opposite and equal expression in the english language, but then it maybe true, it must be true, the opposite of these words for, they are in use... I know I am not making much progress here in my riddles....

LOVE: As Between MAN & WOMAN.... Why is it called "Falling in love" and then when it doesnt work out why do people have a "Broken Heart" to me the whole "shebang" about this love business as it is seen and practised sounds steeped in a "Negativity". For all this Falling business sounds more like losing ground, losing one's sense of individuality, one's sense of independence, one's rationale to sum up all the follies it reminds me of a loss of identity, Don't we say the same about losing all our wealth or proseperity by using the expression " He/She has fallen on bad days". Doesn't it seem so bloody obvious that when you fall you get hurt , so is everyone getting into this mysterious thingy called love with the given guarentee that he/she is gona get hurt for sure? sounds ridiculously funny to me its ironical that what is perceived to be the most beautiful feeling in the world is distorted to sound and seem so negative. The whole falling bit, is it used because in love we become vulnerable to many things? Well when you fall you get broken bones and whatever else and then it hurts. So Dont Fall, that doesnt mean dont be in Love".

"Be In Love", "Rise in Love" ( Ok fall and rise sounds too cheesy but, i got a point there), Be in love its beautiful, and when you are in Love its so beautiful its so good and you got that big million watt smile on your face You must be positively glowing looking like an electric eel... ( crappy humour bear with me)..and when you do feel and look like that, it reflects in every aspect of your life and you become more positive and the whole world looks positive. So when obviously you feel so good and fine, you must be rising like a hot air balloon soaring high, not physically but mentally and in spirit. Your innate and latent good cheer and positiveness should propel you to do things good (or perceived to be good) things which you werent capable of thinking you should do or could do earlier when you were any joe wasting away under the sun and trying to make money or whatever else you have chosen as the purpose of your life.

So when viewed thus love is a wholly positive thing, but what happens when your love isnt requited...what then? should you go and hit the floor try to fall and break yourself or get broken? Hello this is what happens...you only end up hurting yourself...

I was in love or am in love but not letting the person know how i feel. ends up hurting one another.. as i am not right.. as i am not ready.. as i dont do anything to help/heal.. as i don't know how.. as because i think it's too difficult/hard/stressful but it's not.. im just not ready but it doesn't change the way i feel/think.

Golliwog

2007-05-29T16:14:00.001+01:00

Life and times of R.Nair

Chuck

that's all for now. Now back to sober-ness..

Just when I thought I would never love again my one and only true love walked back into my life. She means the world to me and I love her so. She is wonderful and sweet, kind and full of joy. I love her and always have but didn't always show it and I let her down in the past but I have learned from my mistakes and my mistakes have made me a better man.

Golliwog, I love you baby and will treat you the way you have always wanted to be treated. I'll be there for you no matter what. I will now listen to you and always work with you not against you. I will hold you love you rspect you and never give you a reason to look back.

All I ask of you is to love me for the man I have become.

All I can say if you really love someone don't give up cause if it was meant to be it will be. And always respect and love each other no matter what.

They say for every good man there is a good woman well I have that woman and I will never give her up.

You know how I feel

2007-05-19T20:45:00.000+01:00

I want you back too.

Shiznaq

2007-05-18T07:39:00.000+01:00

I am a golden god.................

The battle rages on..

SENATOR JAKE DARN: You are god almighty?

GOD: Yes, I am.

DARN: Creator of all things?

GOD: That is correct.

DARN: The god of the bible, testaments old and new?

GOD: That's right. Look, is this really necessary?

DARN: I'm sorry, but I'm trying to make certain that there is no question as to your identity. Now, you are said to have created the heavens and the earth. Is that correct?

GOD: Yes, I did. You see, a timeless time of nothing was beginning to get on my nerves, so I thought it would be a good idea to -

DARN: Mr. Chairman, please direct the witness to answer the question.

GOD: But, I -

CHAIRMAN: Please, just answer the question as simply as possible.

GOD: Sorry.

DARN: How long did the creation take?

GOD: Six days.

DARN: And, are those days as we understand them, or were they longer?

GOD: I...umm... (garbled) My lawyer has advised me not to answer that question on the grounds of the 47th Amendment.

DARN: The 47th Amendment?

GOD: That's right. That's the one that will guarantee a sense of mystery and wonder in the world.

DARN: Well, umm, would it be safe to say that you took a lot of care in the preparation of the universe?

GOD: Yes. That would be correct.

DARN: Then, how do you explain the existence of...cockroaches?

GOD: Cockroaches? I - cockroaches?
DARN: Mr. Chairman, I submit this example of a cockroach as evidence to this body. Does the witness deny the existence of cockroaches?

GOD: I...no. Obviously, cockroaches do exist.

DARN: And, did you, in fact, create cockroaches?

GOD: I...I don't remember.

DARN: You mean to have us believe that you are god, all-knowing, all-powerful, who created the entire cosmos, the world and all the living things on it, and you don't remember if you created cockroaches?

GOD: I...I wasn't aware of them when I created the world. No.

DARN: Do you believe in cockroaches, Mr. god?

GOD: Oh, no. Not at all. They're vile, nasty creatures, with no purpose other than to offend the senses of innocent men and women.

DARN: As the Constitution clearly states. And, yet, when you created the Garden of Eden, you claim that cockroaches were created without your express knowledge or consent?

GOD: That, umm, is correct.

DARN: But, other than cockroaches, that one exception, you were fully aware of what you were creating, yes?

GOD: Yes. I am god, all-knowing -

DARN: Then, you admit being responsible for leeches? (pause) I will ask again: were you responsible for the creation of leeches?

CHAIRMAN: The witness will please answer the question.

GOD: I...I don't remember. (uproar)

Trivial..............

Tubing

2007-05-14T19:56:00.000+01:00

AbangKakak

Laughter is the biological reaction of humans to moments or occasions of humor: an outward expression of amusement. Laughter is subcategorised into various groupings depending upon the extent and pitch of the laughter: giggles, chortles, chuckles, hoots, cackles, sniggers and guffaws are all types of laughter. Smiling is a mild silent form of laughing. Some studies indicate that laughter differs depending upon the gender of the laughing person: women tend to laugh in a more "sing-song" way. People make me laugh :)

If you do wish to correct the grammar of someone whom you truly believe would welcome & appreciate the correction, then start by asking them if it is okay to offer them a suggestion. You might say something like, 'This is kind of a delicate issue, but I was wondering if it would be alright to offer you a grammatical suggestion? You know I'm kind of a grammar nerd.' This gives the person the opportunity to welcome your suggestion & not feel bad, as you have pointed out your unusual interest in grammar. And of course, be certain you understand the specific grammatical rules & how to apply them before making the correction. But again, if you are not sure the person would welcome the correction, then it is better to keep the issue to yourself.

Smile

2007-05-12T17:37:00.000+01:00

Someone made my day. Someone special.

The Tugboat Complex

2007-05-09T19:12:00.000+01:00

I'm smiling but there's nothing to be happy about.

Once upon a time, there was the cutest couple in the world. Ya know he was the punk and she was Daddy's little girl, and graduation came and she wanted him to stay, he had bigger better dreams waiting out in big city. He said "Don't say goodbye because goodbye means leaving and leaving means forgetting." Two years later she reads in the news, he'd gone on to be a big star but nobody knew.'cause he changed up his name but his heart stayed the same, 'cause every song he wrote, was about her, he claimed. he never got to tell her 'cause he died that year, from all of the coke, and the pills, and the beer, and the whole world cried, but just for one day 'cause sooner or later, the pain goes away. Not.

I whine a lot, make no mistake that this is one of those occasions. I am tired, but it is a weird tired all fuzzy and with different parts of the brain refusing to communicate with each other, I am beginning to think in a completely erratic manner, last night I hallucinated, for the briefest of moments, that a bull/ bison or bovine equivalent was lolloping around on the middle of Lewisham way (for those of us unfamiliar, this is not a green enough pasture to warrant any kind of grazing animal).

Chalk this one up to stress but a week in bed would do me a world of good. Once rested and emerging with bed-bug-bites and sores I will be free to roam and whine with a clear head.

:/

Some random thoughts on this horrid Sunday morning

2007-05-06T16:19:00.001+01:00

Feminists, will you please for the love of all that is holy finish your damn "revolution". To me, and this is just my humble opinion, winning the fight to air tampon commercials and wear "Cum Dumpster" or "Porn star" tee-shirts is, well, stupid. But hey, I mean you are all getting paid as much as men and are now finally represented equally in congress! Oh no wait, never mind. Well, at least you all have won something, right? I just don't know what. I have been called a "woman hater", It just kills me to watch the female gender lose itself over the years. To me, all of a woman's grace and dignity has been forgotten, in a rush to become the next whore on the T.V. showing her tits. And yes, those chicks on Girls Gone Wild make you all look bad, because deep down I think that if most of you had that type of body you would be doing the very same thing. I know of no relationship that any of my female friends are in that could even marginally be called healthy with one small exception. Figure this shit out please, because you have all been lied too. You cannot be the Madonna and the whore. It's one or the other, and don't blame me or men when you chose to be the whore and people treat you like one.

I do tend to let other people's drama affect me. Over all though, I have found a center that is becoming more and more unshakable. My main problem is that I now have an emotional complexity that is taking some time to get used to. I guess I have finally "grown up", what ever that means. I no longer have the emotional range of a tadpole; I can feel two, sometimes three distinct emotional states at once. Now I know most woman might find that statement funny as hell, but for a guy it takes some getting used to. And it has been very nice to read all of the positive feed back from all my friends on my thoughts lately, although like most over-empathetic people I sometimes feel guilty and unworthy of such praise. Don't let me fool you, as I have said many times before, I love you all and will bleed with you when your hurt and cheer with you when you triumph, I remain solely on my side, and no one else's. Other people's drama affects me only as much as I allow it too. Ships are sinking people, and while I will happily pull you to shore, I cannot and will not go down with any of you. Only you can right your ship. It just kills me that so many of you seem to be hell bent on running your life into the ground, with a shit eating grin on your face. Ten out of ten for style I suppose, but negative several million for good thinking.

Did you manipulate yourself into it?

2007-04-26T17:03:00.000+01:00

I know I do. I think I am..

Is it a mystery why we fall in love? It is a mystery how it happens. It is a mystery when it comes. It is a mystery why some love grows and it is a mystery why some love fails. You can analyze this mystery and look for reasons and causes, but you will never do anymore that take the life out of the experience. Just as life itself is more than the sum of the bones and muscles and electrical impulses in the body, love is more than the sum of the interests and attractions and commonalities that two people share. And just as life itself is a gift that comes and goes in its own time, so too, the coming of love must be taken as an unfathomable gift that cannot be questioned in its ways.

When they fall out of love, or the person they love feels the spirit of love leaving, they try desperately to reclaim the love that is lost rather than accepting the gift for what it was, then moving on. They want answers where there are no answers. They want to know what is wrong in them that makes the other person no longer love them, or try to get their love to change, thinking that if some small things were different, love would bloom again. They blame their circumstances and say that if they go far away and start a new life, their love will grow. They try anything to give meaning to what has happened. But there is no meaning beyond the love itself, and until they accept its own mysterious ways, they live in a sea of misery.

All our hearts feel the same.

Back to reality

I went back to the BBQ Wednesday to consecrate a second day of gluttony, reaching the luscious, green park by a combination of subway, foot, and nostril.

I stayed for a few sets of not altogether amateurish live music by blues and jazz teams haphazardly culled from the roadcrew, and following two pulled-pork sandwiches, six ribs, three coleslaws, a pile of brisket, a cup of baked beans, four varieties of sausages.

I must have been there awhile, my jaw was exhausted, and I had stopped chewing my food. I was leaning against the incapacitated fountain at the center, situated between the stage and the beer tent, finishing one last bite, feeling dizzy, squinting westward. But I was focused on the large bubble that had formed in my stomach, gastrogenesis. It was growing, expanding, pressing chewed meat against the sides of my stomach. It was sharp, like the great british barbeque butcher, having finished dissecting hundreds of pigs and cattle, was now starting on me from the inside.

Hurts..

Stupid stupid stupid,

That is how i feel now. My aching now is almost certainly a fraction of what my general outlook will be tomorrow.

5 hours in casualty and 6 stitches in my face and I am sitting at home seeping blood at a gentle ebb.

I am hoping that if any positive is to come of this, aside from the distinguished black eye that makes me look like some sunday league south east london wide boy, would be an even more distinguished bruise in a v shape nestling its way into my eye socket.

Anybody who gives a damn send me love, sympathy and care parcels full of chocolate and cheap novels. Blood sweat and tears and all that, I would be less wound up about the situation if I had played for more than five minutes of the game!

Hockey - a sport for men.

Now the nerves have been jangled

2007-04-15T13:35:00.000+01:00

According to wikipedia, the very first webcam was pointed at a coffee pot at Cambridge University. Since this monumental moment in history, the webcam has been pointed at different things; panda births, naked folk, volcanoes, and traffic. I'll get one soon.It was possibly a wiser man that intimated that we, the people of earth, are as one on the bouncing ball of life, merely contented to be along for the ride. There are very few common goals in this world. In this instance the goal is not to be on the bottom when it bounces.This seems rather too sardonic a jaunt for this early on in the day and this late on in the week, but I can't feel my face and embarking on some quasi intellectual battle is an attempt to keep me firmly tethered to the ball.It has been a fun week. I bust my leg playing football but was heartened that on the same day I got a gig. I need the money for the time being. ATLEAST, worked with professionals so it was all worthwhile. Plenty of travelling. Sickness is in the post, I swear.

And as much as Europe is now a small and terrified creature with many and varied defensive mechanisms; upon ones back clawing at anything that moves within spitting distance being the most obvious. Yesterday I begin to notice the small things I do to feel comfortable;

When holding hands with someone I am inclined to place my thumb on top of theirs (i panic if I am not in control of my hand), walking down the street I touch every bollard and run my finger along railings to produce a satisfying and calming rhythm. Since the age of six I have been unable to stand on three grates on the pavement and refuse to walk under sign posts. I sleep with my back to the wall and sit with my face to the window in fear of people coming to get me. If I don't get my way I don't sleep. For Christ’s sake I am twenty and my personal weirdness increases ten fold year on year. By the age of thirty I will be the guy with a cardboard belt, a straw lined flannel shirt (for insulation) and a tin foil head piece to stop them from reading my thoughts. By forty having lost all contact with those people who stood by me in my plastic shoes phase I will be forced to work in IT. Terror. Terror. Terror.

Who lit the fuse on your tampon?

2007-04-10T16:30:00.000+01:00

Upon the goading of my peers I have been prompted to publish more ramblings. It has been a hellish couple of months and I am quite sorry of neglected the past-time of ranting about my concerns for the tattered globe we dwell on.

O.K. now a distinct sensation of being doomed has set in. I am happily ignoring the calls from my school and family, although knowing that such folly will be my undoing in the coming weeks.

This though is not my immediate sense of trepidation. Nor is the fact I just went for a shower and my water proof radio (christmas 2003) was playing a documentary about Robert Johnson. Just tuning in, I was rewarded with a full and very emblematic description of him dying of a poisoning, barking like a dog. Supposedly the hounds of hell coming to collect the soul he owed the devil. No even this was not that disconcerting!

It is odd. A gut feeling, though more likely something in the air; I'm not in Malaysia, so it isn't cancer. It might be some resonance to seeing 300 (ish, i'm no journalist) people being hauled off a soontobefireball aircraft, a weirdly heartening sight. In future I will pay more attention to plastic backed panic cards!Or fly less!

The damndest and possibly the most predictable thing just happened. I was catching a train at London bridge out towards Deptford. Too tired to even consider keeping my eyes in focus, on an evening I use journeys like this in the working week to read as much as possible. I take a seat on a sweltering southbound connex train. Lo and behold I am joined by a man and a woman and there pet dog.

The couple were elderly but far further gone in senility than there age would demand. The woman, yellow haired and wrapped in pink over coat making the small concession of rolling her sleeves up a little on what must have been the coldest day of the year, spent the ten minutes we shared balancing her personal financial affairs with startling feats mental acrobatics. The man balding with glasses in a pair of four stripe jogging bottoms and equally enshrouded in overcoats, this time with badge after badge of holiday locations in the British Isles, such sunny climbs as: Wales, Lowestoft, Suffolk, Harwich, Whitby and Llandudno.

The man chattered incessantly without being of any particular use to the yellow haired accountant, after a while recognising he wasn't being listened to, thought it better to feed the dog, Roy, coca cola from his finger. As I got up to leave the woman started to get panicky and begun to remonstrate with Roy. "Sit down! We have paid for the seat!". This was all a bit much for me and I have not been able to read since.

This has been an all round negative transmission, but fear not, I think I just need some chocolate! And some hitchcock!

Poots

2007-04-06T10:24:00.000+01:00

Parties and Bloodline.

Jump, Jump

This is as underground as it gets. Speakeasies rock.

Armenian Bloodline

My Music

This is a standard Squire Strat in bright purple. One of my favourite guitars. It's one of the ones from back when Squire made decent instruments out of actual wood...

I wanted a Squire specifically after reading Steve Vai had tested a load of Strats to use to record Tender Surrender (or something) and picked the Squire as it had the best vintage tone. Oh, and it has the big headstock like Jimi Hendrix used to have LOL!

ESP G-CL-60
Fitted with Maverick high output pickups, 24 fret neck and floyd rose trem. Oh, and industrial paint job ;)

Used for playing heavy Nine Inch Nails-esque stuff

This is my main guitar at the moment. It's an Ibanez RG470 from the late 1990's. Has a DiMarzio Evolution in the bridge pickup.

Left : 93 Fender Telecaster (Well worn!)
Right : 72 Fender Telecaster Custom Re-issue

The 72 is a great guitar but it really is very heavy. Heavier even than the ESP Les Paul!
The 93 was a good guitar until I beat the living daylights out of it..

I LOVE the matte black paint job and Hot Rod "13" logo. Fantastic guitar for the money, so good I thought about buying another for when this one dies...

Getting ready and getting older. I'm no longer asexual with straight tendencies. I now fuck concepts with staggering frequency. i actually grew up in KL, so despite the fact that i may appear cultured and worldly, i am steeped in a time-honored tradition of culturelessness and superficiality, haha. I may be an asshole. I may not. Like Einstein said, everything is relative. Ah, relativity. A delightful concept. Perhaps I could write a song about it? On second thought, perhaps that is an utterly disgusting idea. I doubt Einstein was meant to be symphonized, or even beat-box-ized for that matter, though it does provoke a relatively amusing image to come to mind.

Leave it t music, family and friends to make me happy ;)

Winter

2007-04-02T05:12:00.000+01:00

I'm still in Malaysia but it feels like winter here. Cold and Harsh. Not waking up to the sun this morning left me feeling pretty bleek,and since I dont own a diary,I decided to post this blog... I woke up to the sound of the cat crunching on biscuits, which left me tossing and turning in bed mangled. In the half dead state that I was in, I went online. Thinking about the chat we just had opened a floodgate of bad thoughts which left me in a state of hectic emoness,I felt almost almost non-human.Not a great way to start a Monday morn (please note:It was not due to the hangover).

I lay there with these bad thoughts creeping into my head which were totally uninvited. They all stemmed from something in my past which I really want to forget. I hate the fact that I have a nasty habit of obsessing over these sort of things. These "gatecrashers" or bad memories arrive sooner or later and no matter how much I try to ignore them, I still force myself into trying to find some resolution to their existence.Its exhausting beating myself down with questions I dont have the answers to.

So there I was in bed getting all worked up over things which I hadnt thought of in a very long time. The more I focused them,the more tired I became,but at the same time no matter how hard I tried, I couldnt force myself to roll over into ignorance and get some shut eye.

One usually finds their bed as their comfort zone- warm,snuggly and intimate. But not on this particular morning. The bags under my eyes tell me that living in denial doesnt make these bad thoughts dissapear, or any less menicing and tragic. Theres no cure, no medication that you can take to make them dissapear. Bad thoughts can make life pretty uncomfortable, even my own bed, and they still cause me to wake up on the wrong side of it.

Sanctus Necnon Sceleris

2007-03-04T13:00:00.000Z

your words in my memory
are like music to me
im miles from where you are,
i lay down on the cold ground
i, i pray that something picks me up
and sets me down in your warm arms.

i got a first class ticket to a night all alone
and a front row seat up right by the phone.
cause youre always on my mind
and im running out of time.

holding on to broken hearts
memories are whats left of us
youre trying too hard to be my friend
and im placing all your pictures
in these broken frames
to remind me never fall in love again.

and yet i still ponder about her..

Hectic, Hectic.. RUN

2007-02-27T02:11:00.000Z

Some wonderful people have come into my life.... all of you out there, and especially those of you who make it a point to be a part of my hectic life. Memories. Sometimes they are all we are left with. I choose to remember the good times.This 19th year of my life has been pivotal, spiritually, physically, emotionally, and socially. No longer to the strains of pain and suffering weave their way to supremacy in my music and life. I've learned to smile, I've learned to laugh, I've learned to love and I can't stop now, and if I didn't say it already, I LOVE YOU!

Not a lot is going on in life as of late. I just wanted to post a new blog seeing as how I haven't in quite some time. KL, a city that runs 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, which accommodates my hectic life is beneficial. If there's anything I've learned thus far here in KL it's that you can't predict when or where the waves of life will take you, but that you must ride them the best you can.. and if you ever have time on a lazy saturday to just relax and reflect, you take it because those times are so few and far between in this hectic life.

Three Cheers For New Beginnings

2007-02-22T06:28:00.001Z

I've deleted my old blog and made a new one.

At the moment i'm just living life.. One minute at a time. The blog title is derived from the movie "Fight Club", which is one of the best movies made.
Life can be squeezed out of us in one blink. Sometimes life is more of a struggle. It hits us in waves. I hope to remember it in a dream. Sometimes we live life so passionately, so intensely that it hurts others just to be around us. Other times, we live life on the surface, so superficially that, well, it hurts others just be around us. I believe it is when we allow ourselves to feel the waves of life and experience both the calm waters and the rough waters that we truly find peace. We need to allow ourselves to feel raw emotion. Currently waiting to go back to school, there's nothing left that's holding be back. I will be finishing my degree probably end of this year or early next year. What's next for me? Masters? Work? I haven't decided yet. I've done everything I wanted to do in my lifetime.

* I've bungee-jumped
* I've gone dirtbiking
* I've gone deep-sea fishing
* I've surfed Bali and Australia
* I've partied. Gone Drunk and Sober. Danced my ass off.
* I've loved and loss. Something I have not regretted.
* I've messed up many times.
* I've gotten into accidents. Too many to count.

What else is there to do? Backpacking through Europe? Asia? America? Maybe one day but at the moment i'll take whatever life throws at me. I have been splurging, too much. Now I have earrings and wedding bands that I can't no longer use. It was a bad idea to have it engraved. That I regret. Other things I have splurged on.. Cars? Mp3s? Normal stuff. Stuff I don't really need but want. Some of the cars have been sold though.. The beamers are gone.