happy thoughts, eh...

According to the O.C., tis the time of year for happy thoughts. Apparently, my brain didn't get the memo.

Happy. Hardly. I'm still pissed. But I don't remember why. Those long dead people who first said "forgive and forget" have obviously been forgotten, but as to whether they have been forgiven is another matter entirely.

I'm going to have to make it a point to be more violent. It's high time I'm taken seriously. You think I'm joking? Good.

To prove someone wrong, first prove them right.

People hate a smart alec. Fortunately, my name's not Alec.

Meh.

this is just the beginning...

You know who you are. That is only a taste of what I can do.

Do not piss me off again. Next time, I will smack you upside. I don't have qualms about hitting girls. Being physically weaker doesn't make you safe. And morality are for those who are weak and stupid.

Piss me of again, and you will see what happens next.

your face...

...is your fortune. Or so they say.

I'm broke.

Apparently, according to my mom, my grandma cries herself to sleep because her oldest grandson that can pass on the family name (me, that is), is ugly. I suppose it should comfort her by telling her I don't plan to have kids. Or get married, for that reason. Maybe I should tell her I'm gay. That should provoke interesting response.

My mom ain't helping much either. She took a look at this pic:

"Who is this girl?"

What the fuck?

I have a new cousin. I can't remember his name.

Let's hope he can fill in the big shoes that a grandson should. I failed. And if my brother turns out anything like me, he'll fail too.

I'm quite pissed. I hate it when my parents tell me off for anything, especially in public. Sometimes, I wonder if it's me. If I'm the childish one to sorta deserve admonition the way you'd scold a child. And if so, is it my fault? Can you expect me to behave any more adult if you insist on treating me like a child? I suppose not. At any rate, I don't act. I don't pretend. At least, not all the time. But the treatment continues regardless.

I'm so fucked. A look in the mirror confirms that my grandmother probably isn't wrong. A look at my mannerisms also confirms my parents opinion of me. And a quiet sit down alone shows that inside, I'm probably equally fucked up.

Walking in the Curve today, I almost wanted to ask my parents: if I died tomorrow, what would you do with the money you plan to spend on my Uni fees? The more I look at it, the less point I see in continuing this course of existence. I will never accept the life of a desk jockey, and I don't think I could actually do a business of my own. Any money spent on me from this point onwards seems like a pathetic waste.

It turns out that the downpayment for this house was paid just after my dad paid 6k for my first piano. It seems he's still not too happy that I haven't gotten anything tangible out of it. As I know it, he's a man to get the most out of his investment, and frankly, this one is sort of the kind that will keep taking, and has no dividend. And, I'm talking about me.

Went out for dinner with Tjit and Darien. SS2 after 7 in that food court place is teeming with chicks. As in, hot chicks. Plenty of eye candy for Tjit. From his eyes alone, which were basicaly glazed over. Darien was quite used to it, since he comes here almost all the time. Me, I dunno. I just sat there. This chick in a Hotlink staff uniform comes up to sell us phone numbers, I just wave her off.

Darien: What la you, chicks come, chit chat a bit la.

Me: Want to say what? I don't need a new number, but I can certainly do with yours?

Tjit: Yeah! He he he...

Me: *swt*

I make this most weird of statements.

Me: Strange thing is, I'm not attracted to girls who are attracted to me. But I'm attracted to girls who aren't.

Darien: So, you weren't attracted to Evon.

That hit me like a brick. I was. And probably still am. I know for certain I loved her. Any maybe still do. In a way, how she was, and is, special is that there was a mutual attraction. In general, that doesn't happen all the time. For me, it was plain unique. As far as I know, nobody ever loved me that way.

Why do I wax lyrical over the past? It's driving me insane. I know I'm fucked. I know I'm likely to have a nervous breakdown by my next birthday. I know I'll likely have a suicide attempt sometime in this life, and fail miserably at it. And I know that I'm not helping anyone here. Sigh.

People are telling me to just get laid so I can shut up. Maybe just skip that, and shut up. The more I talk, the more I seem to screw things up. Liz says I look so happy in my pics. Maybe, it's the fact that I'm so good at lying about everything, that even my outside is starting to believe it. I'm a most convincing actor. I can even act that I cannot act. And best of all, I never knew I had the talent.

My marks are fucked. Verily so. Anything less than a 90 is not useful for my purposes. And I won't likely have that 90. My marks have fallen so low, I need an oil rig to dig for it. If it isn't, it certainly feels that way.

It never rains but pours. The bottom of the cycle is followed by the downturn of many unrelated things. I normally wouldn't give a fuck about the opinions of others. But it seems, that in the past year, I've changed. And not just once. I think I'm becoming normal. And for that, I fear for my soul. Finally.



Meh.

steak...

Forgive the photography. Handphone cameras aren't exactly ideal for this purpose.

San Francisco Steakhouse. Classy setting, very American bistro. It's a dim, almost cave-like ambience, kinda like a hacienda.

Oxtail soup was good. Thick, creamy, and a generous portion of meat. The soup part was a bit too low on volume, though.


Lime juice. Very sour, as expected. Nothing extroadinary.


This is a whole fish. The bones are all there, but apparently it's sweet. No idea what it's called though.


Lamb shank. As in, whole hip of lamb. In a stew. Not too bad, but I prefer my lamb roasted or grilled.


Highlight, and most expesive, dish: Magyu beef cut.

120g costs a whopping 88 bucks. Whether it's worth it or not, I can't say. But I can say this: It's freaking good.

The meat is still red inside, so it's really soft and tender and fleshy.

Juices are flowing, and the sauce leaves a lasting impression on you. Kind of how your first sex should be like.

Also available: Live American lobster. Nobody had it, mostly because someone decided she didn't like seafood. At least you know it's fresh enough that it's staring at you.


Live music. These guys were good. Twas a shame there were so few people in the house. A good repertoire, and I think they're from Sri Hartamas, or somewhere.


Only real complaint is that the maitre' d was a bit blunt. Maybe she's out of practice.

Verdict: 4 out of 5. Worth a try, if you've got the cash lying around. Pricey, but you get a few unusual things on the menu. If you want to stick to more conventional fair, I suggest you stick to Victoria Station, or the Ship.

Next time, I bring the D70.

Meh.

ruminating...

I think it actually means something to do with cows, but I forget, so, meh.

The last time I felt this drained was when I had that surgery and they had to basically wash out my blood. That was a weird time.

Had the most delectable piece of cow for dinner. Like, good. The Japanese may be short and kinky, but they sure know how to make good beef. Magyu beef, which are basically Japanese cows grown in Australia. Yeah, okay fine. Whatever. At any rate, it was good. San Francisco Steakhouse. The place in the Summit is kinda fucked, cuz it's quite empty, but the food is good, service prompt. Maybe because it's empty. Anyways, blur pics soon to come. Forgot to bring camera. Like, camera phones seriously have to NOT be VGA phones.

I'm going to make it a point to wake up insanely early and go for walks. Then come back, lift weights a bit, then maybe run around some. The point is to work the body to exhaustion. Time to break it down into tiny bits, then reconstruct it. Especially the brain. It's beginning to malfunction lately, as you can see with my most recent posts.

Drastic situation I'm in. I'm no longer top in anything. My chem's fucked. English even more fucked. And I'm short of 1 to be top of geometry. And those of you tearing out your nipples in outrage at my seemingly ungratefulness of my position can go right ahead. Once you've tasted ambrosia, you don't go back to downing air tebu. So, make sure you have the number of a good plastic surgeon to reattach your detached mammary glands.

I've lost touch with myself. And other people. And I don't miss it one bit. It's hard to, when it doesn't quite miss you either. Time to move on, eh? I'm getting quite emo lately. No idea why. Maybe it's the emo component of me finally coming out? Quite strange, can fell all sorts of pangs for stuff I don't normally even think about. And songs can make me stop dead in my tracks because they remind me of things, even though I've never heard the song before. One particular one is Utada Hikaru's Final Distance.

As of yet, there are no applications for that smooching post. Oh well. it is not crucial, and I do not have the time to finance such a position, so, I suppose it's a good thing. There are more important biological voids to fill, such as my renewed compulsion for eating all the time. This is proving expensive, since my choice of nourishment has attained somewhat loftier positions ever since I started eating less, but higher up the scale. Must starve into insanity. That usually rebalances the checkbooks. Of course, the more obvious option would be to eat cheap, but obvious is boring, isn't it?

Emo kid, maybe that's what I've been unconciously all this while. Lucid thinking seems to be the predominant trait and can somehow override more pressing emotional concerns. Crying is hard still, but I'm letting loose the twistedly insane cheerful streak so often that I think I may have gotten someone to somehow change his sexual orientation. Coolness.

I read this story of this boy who had long silver hair, one cybernetic eye, and apparently full of life. He had this quirky trait of being so inanely cheerful that everyone had no choice but to live to his level of enthusiasm. He had this problem, similar to epilepsy, that could only be controlled through the ingesting of some addictive, mentally eroding drug. And of course, another guy falls for him and something something. Of course, this is a lemony bit of fiction, but it was a good one with a real interesting story. You can read it here. The weird part is seeing my name in the story. Repeatedly.

Such an emo character I am. And then again, not. The manner in which I can instantly regain composure is so unsettling to me that sometimes I question my own intentions. The sad part is not being able to answer for sure. I pray somehow that out there, someone can finally fix me up to perfection, or deconstruct me so completely, that fixing would never be an issue.

Ah, emo kid am I.

Meh.

fucked both ends...

There's no doubt about it. The yearbook has been run by incompetants all along. Design team is absolutely retarded if they expect these designs to be passable for a yearbook. Mr Meagher is right. It doesn't say very much about us if we don't even have the organizational skills to get something as simple as a yearbook out. And even though I don't think much of people in general, I certainly am out to increase the value of my shares.

To be associated with such idiots is mind boggling. How on earth such retardedness has been allowed to fester for so long is beyond me. The people in charge of such a mess should be drawn and quartered and fed to rabid platypi.

Okay, fine. Not ALL the designs suck so badly. Some are, perhaps, usable. In a vague sense. But all in all, the use of clipart in a Word document does not constitute yearbook material. Throw in wordart, and you're screaming bloody murder. If you do not possess the slightest nuance of the use of Photoshop, or any similar designing tool, do not presume to place yourself on the design team. Had this been an established publication, maybe you could have had on job training. But the very fact that you've been too rock-like in your motions and very much the same in your brains, is reason enough to have you crushed for road gravel.

The book will come out. That much is sure. I will see to it that it DOES NOT SUCK. At least, if it does, it won't create a space-time vortex that the current mostrosity does. It is not excusable to be this retarded. Ever.

I think it's pretty stupid to take on a double edged sword, especially since I don't like pointy things. But swordfighting is fun, and when you have the cutting edge to unhedge careers and reputations, the lure to play with sharp point objects increases. Just hope I don't poke my eyes out.

Meh

gullible...

That's what you people are, if you believed that particular smooching thing from the last post. Can you imagine any guy wanting to kiss me? Hey, if there are, I'd be happy to go along with it. So what if that's gay? You discrimnating against fags? Well, you can just take your bigotist homophobic anus padding somewhere else. Me, on the other hand, am quite willing to get a good smooch from just about anyone.

Want to apply? You gotta match a few things:

~Be of reasonable appearance. I'm not gonna kiss anything that broke a mirror lately.

~Don't have bad breath. Garlic and onions are fine. I like spicy. But morning breath and severe halitosis should be treated with a double shot of 200 proof (read 100%) alcohol and lit with a blowtorch.

~Must have chocolates on hand. Smarties don't count.

~Must not be out for a relationship. I just want to see what kind of kisser you are. Anything further than that is unwarranted and will be rewarded by instant molecular decomposition. Of course, if you want to buy me dinner, that will be most welcome.

I think there was once I mentioned in a most nonchalant manner to a particular someone that I had a footlong cock. The interesting thing was that for the next few days, I found that many people were staring at my crotch in school. If I recall correctly, there was an attempt to put hands there to confirm the fact.

Gullible bastards. If I had a footlong cock, I'd be wearing shorts to school everday. Mwahaha.

Seems that the new in-thing to do is write like Maddox. And no, he does not have the best page in the universe. And yes, I'm too lazy to hyperlink. He just happens to have a particularly vapid readership of depressed wankers, suicidal bimbos, homocidal maniacs and Malaysian politicians. Maybe I have to change my ranting style to something distinctly me, namely writing out whole dialogues. Too bad I don't have the attention span to pay attention to most of your pointless shenanigans.

The Irish are weird. Who else would eat potatoes and wear green all the time?

Apparently, I'm not that funny. But I don't really care. If I was funny, I'd laugh at myself. And that would be stupid.

Yearbook arrangements are getting fucked. I am extremely annoyed at all this. Honestly, is it too hard to find competant designers these days? Ah, no. That's not the only problem. Now it seems that I may somehow be pointed a finger at. Fucktards. I don't owe any of you anything. Least of all since I'm probably one of the few who actually got their jobs done, and probably the only likely to be able to help you out of this bind. And in all honesty, I am pretty much looking forward to the potential carnage that WILL happen sooner or later. Last man standing is a bitch. And anyone who believes that it's all gonna happen nicely is a gullible bitch.

SPM for you spammers. Having fun? I'm sure you are. Since it's only a few more days before the living hell of pointless anticipation ends. You'll all go off on your joyful randomness and stuff. Then the results will come out, thereby refreshing the stale browser of panicked reality. The tizzying frenzy is music to my ears. Killjoy, that's what I am. Brutal fact. Not that you can ever escape it, at least not the way you're trying to. Only a fool would believe he could.

People hating each other is annoying when I'm caught in between. And then there's also multiple cases to face all at once. And misunderstanding is particularly exasperating when you're supposed to be the one at fault, and I take no blame for anything. If it IS my fault, then boohoo for you, because you should have realised earlier that I owe you nothing, least of all an explanation. When I get nothing out of it, you can count on it that I don't really give a fuck what happens to your precious cargo. You want me to care, then give me something to gain out of it. Charity begins at home. They never said where it would end.

I'm not a very prejudiced person. I have only ONE prejudice, and that would be against stupid people. It's just plain coincidence that almost everyone is stupid. So, boohoo, too bad, I'm prejudiced against you. Those of you who debate by saying stupidity is relative, well, guess what? You're stupid.

Always court Disaster. Her sister Adventure might decide your flirty advances are enticing. Who knows, you might even bed her. The problem is when Disaster decides she wants a piece of the action too. Then, you're fucked. Literally.

Meh.