youth...

You know how the General Theory of Relativity states that the faster you go, the slower time moves? Anyway, I really gotta stop taking the train, cuz it's causing all sorts of mental time warps. Like, take this time for instance.

It's like Anzac Day or something, where they make all sorts of peculiar cookies and what-have-yous to celebrate some ageing and senile group of ex-combatants who I don't think really did a whole very much besides invade some country named after some large poultry or some other but I digress.

While in the train, a bunch of old people came in this time, with a better dress sense than the previous group, but still somewhat colourblind. I give them that age dims vision or some other. Anyway, this young-ish looking woman came onto the train and whatnot, and soon, this woman and an old man from the group were bantering, which in itself was an amusing spectacle. Now this old codger was wearing all sorts of medals and stuff and about 5 feet tall, and was obviously being watched over by this tall-ish (in comparison) and pudgy looking dude.

Since I don't basically recall the order of the conversation I'll just go over the gist of it.

Old Codger: So, whereabout's ya from?

Youngish Lady: I from Thailand.

OC: Darlin', I don't care where you from, Thailand, Vietnam, you is be-e-utiful. You married?

YL: Yes, I is married.

OC: Ah. What-a waste. Do ya have any kids?

YL: Yes. I has a few kids.

At this point, this other pudgy white woman adds into the conversation, although it must be said that she was more or less participant, repeating the softly spoken Thai lady's words for the deaf old codger.

Pudgy Woman: Hey, darlin', how old are you?

YL: Me? I am 43 year old.

Oh my. This lady didn't look a day over 25.

PW: Wow. You have gotta be kiddin' me! Next time, when a man asks how old you are, ya can just say that ya 21, cuz you definitely look like it. Like, look at me, I'm 46 and I'm dyeing my hair. I bet sure as hell you don't dye YOUR hair.

At this, the pudgy lady sits next to the Thai lady and they start examining each others' hair, kinda like monkeys grooming.

OC: Hey, I'm 90 years old and I tell ya, I've tried so many things and still I look like some broken down truck. Howd'ja do it?

YL: *blush* Oh, that's because I excercise.

OC: Oh, I sure show you some other excercise.

Gah. Now I feel really, well, infantile. Here's this 90 year old coot flirting with this married 43 year old lady who looks 25, all the while bouncing up and down in the train like some trained bonobo (he was REALLY short, I tell you). I couldn't help smiling at the ceiling when what appeared to be the pudgy woman's husband/boymanfriend began smooching her.

Sigh. Now I feel so, young. Like I haven't experienced much of anything like this. Sure, some people accuse me of being a flirt, but it's not as if I go out of my way to talk that way. It's how I speak! And the LAST time I was kissed by anyone, if I recall (that part of me still kinda remains old), was about a year ago. Sigh.

I don't know. I'm dizzy, and all pumped from that very brisk walk up the hill. Haha. I can still walk briskly.

Ergh. In other news, read this.

tough luck...

Just goes to show, no matter how hard you try, there are some things you just can't change.

maturity...

So I was on the train home, when this group of very LOUD Year 12s (judging from their lack of social decorum and colour coordination), walked in. My first thought was, "oh my, how unrefined." My second thought went more along the lines of, "God, I'm getting fucking old!" Or am now less stupid. But let's stick with old.

The colourblind kids were going on and on about how no sign says they can't screech like nails on a chalkboard or how they couldn't be jumping around like headless chickens. And I was thinking, if I had the level of intelligence of a rock, and a stupid one at that, given my current social views, I'd be saying and doing the exact same thing. And then I noticed that I'd done the exact same thing a year or two back. Gasp! I'm old!

Another sign of aged-ness is how I'm actually able to give out sound and socially acceptable relationship advice both to straight and gay people. Previously, all my opinions were based entirely on logical deductions of the situation and rarely on any sort of prior experience. Let it be said now, though, that any sort of experience I've had is still pretty limited, although from that pool, a whole mine full of random crap has allowed me to give people life-changing opinions and stuff.

I suppose the ultimate sign of old age is when you actually start scrimping like you're ona fixed income. Like, I ACTUALLY stop and look at prices these days. And caloric content and ingredients and stuff. And fabric types and washing instructions. And, God forbid, expected product lifespans.

Sigh. This clinches it. I'm old. And I haven't even done much. Like, none of that fantastic binge boozing I've heard so much about, or all that head banging at those pointlessly loud and noisy clubs, or random sex with random people (or any sex for that matter), or much in the way of normal two-person relationships. Sigh. Old old old old old.

Coupled with my worsening attention span and memory, this only leads to further proofs. And I actually enjoy furniture shopping and arranging, recipe books, and colour coordinated outfits. Old, or maybe just gay. Hmm.

daily jin-sentials...

Since I really have nothing better to post, I thought maybe random people would like to know what I bring with me everyday (randomly), and also because since I have such a short attention span, I thougt I should note it down, since I'm inadvertantly forgetting to bring certain things around with me these days.


The core produce, from top left corner clockwise; my wallet, my Adidas shades which I got at half price, a blue Nokia 3100 (my first and to date, only, phone) a 512MB thumbdrive with a slightly corroded exterior from exposure to perspiration, a miniature Pilot G2 gel pen, my keys, and a varying amount of change (by varying I mean anywhere from 15 cents to 12 bucks in coins)to be mixed and matched with:


Accesories also depends on what I'm wearing. Like, if I'm wearing earth tones, usually the beads alone, or sometimes I'll throw in one of the teeth. If it's black, it's usually the dogtag, which incidentally reads: QUICKSILVERLINING (my name is so friggin common it's probably easier to identify my corpse through my usernames). If the dogtag goes on, so does that little white rubber band. I still think they're pretty ridiculous things, those bands, but ever since my 'friend' conned me into buying one for some "Make Poverty History" blahniks, I feel compelled to get my 2 dollars' worth. Anyway, if it's proper collared shirt, I usually wear the one of the teeth. I like to think it makes a statement: I may look civilized now, but piss me off and I'll be adding yours to my collection. Incidentally again, those are a real shark's tooth and a real wolf tooth.


Inside the mysterious wallet of Jin, from the top left corner in a clockwise direction, we have a Victorian public transport concession card overlaying two half used 10x 2 hourly tickets, an international student card, and the Monash student ID, membership cards for Monash Ultimate, MUMSU, and Chong Hua clubs, the black wallet Wen gave me for Valentine's, my Malaysian P licence, Malaysian ID, Maybank ATM card, Commonwealth Bank Debit card, accounts log, and AU$95.00 in cash.

Wahey!

Also, what is with all these annonymous gay bloggers trying to find out what each other look like? I must admit, it IS quite fascinating to consider, like, who V is (yes, we all know he's Hugo Weaving but that's besides the point). I wonder what Jay looks like. Hmm, short attention span strikes again.

What we talkin' about?

clayton sunsets...

Because sometimes we have to stop and look around.

in the kitchen with jin...

Ignore the previous cryptic post. It's a coded message to my future self when I'm feeling emo. Anyways...

Today, Jin will demonstrate how to make a kickass black pepper sauce that will either have you screaming as your throat spontaneously combusts and your eyes leaking like a Dutch dam, or have you cum in your pants AND your eyes leaking like a Dutch dam.

First, get about 3 big onions chopped into nice little cubic-like pieces. If possible, try to make them somewhat uniform sized, unlike mine.

Also, get black pepper (the unground type), and crush them coarsely. Too fine and it loses some flavour, for some reason.

Toss butter into a pot to melt. You COULD use margarine, but did you know that margarine is only ONE carbon link away from becoming a plasticky plastic? Well, actually, by definition, it already IS a plastic. Also, it's black before it's dyed yellow and that if you left it out for a year, it would not have deteriorated in the least, because not even bugs will eat it. Anyway, do this:

Then, saute the chopped onions in the butter. You want to do this until the onions become transparent. Very cool, but keep in mind that you can't stop stirring if not the butter will caramelize with the onions and form some wickedly sticky black morass at the bottom of your pot and smell like that last batch of cookies you tried to bake.

Sprinkle a bit of flour over the yellowish mixture and stir in well. Then, throw in chicken stock powder, oyster sauce, Worcestershire sauce, white and black pepper powders, salt, sugar and water. It should look like something the cat regurgitated at this point:

Let it boil (it will still look a bit dodgy). Try to keep the fire low unless you like carbonized sludge that you scrape off the bottom of pots. From this point onwards, you should periodically taste the sauce to make sure it will be the cumfest it should be. Add more oyster sauce/Worcestershire sauce/pepper to adjust for individual preferences.

When sufficiently thick, allow to cool for a bit if you're bottling. Otherwise, just pour over anything and everything edible for an orgasmically good time.

For the whole recipe with technical measurements, email me.

nightingale...

And it sings ever so sweetly to someone who knows that the world out there doesn't really care if you're alone.

You wonder sometimes if they're really friends, or if they're only there for the things you do. There's no need to go into details, you know their eyes light up when you mention certain things will be going on, they immediately agree, even to go out of their way, just to see you. Or rather, see you do that thing you do. That thing you do well enough that they find it worthwhile to 'befriend' you over.

You should be glad this isn't a public shower. Your constant bending over to pick up someone else's soap will result in a surefire sore bottom. But admit it, you love it. You love the attention all of this brings you. You love the compliments showered upon that otherwise insignificant skill, that otherwise negligible blip on their radar.

You see their gleeful smiles. And inwardly, you smile too, because you know in the very least, you caused it. They wave goodbye as they leave, you standing behind, waving back, like the ignorant idiot you are. Then it hits you. You're alone again. Naturally.

Except, maybe the nightingale. That sweet song reminding you that nobody loves anybody for themselves alone. Just like you would find the little black bird a toxic dung dropper, but for the song. And sometimes, it helps to know that no matter how fucked up you realise you are, there's always an animal even more raped than you.