Big Brother Extends His Reach.

This is ridiculous. No shit.

I can't believe Friendster added the new function of seeing who's viewed you. Now, they know I've been looking at them. I always use Friendster as a surveillance tool re the people I've met online, some random people in my life. Now people know I'm a voyeuristic, nosy bugger.

Embarrassing.

The barest comfort is the fact that they can't count the number of times I've viewed them. Argh!

Fluck you!

I might have to launch into a diatribe against how invasive technology is!The only thing that should be invasive is ME!I feel violated! VIOLATED, I tell you.

Time to register for a bogus account.

Another little irony.

My mother comes into my room and asks me,
" How much do you save?"
I grunt rudely and say, " I don't want to tell you."
" Why is it everytime you talk to me, you talk as though I want to take money from you?"

I keep studying.

" From this and the Adidas shoebag, ( Prior to this, she had asked to borrow my shoe bag, and I expressed relcutance because I assumed from the word shoe, she want to borrow my heels - and only certain heels are for loan, but she thought I was reluctant to lend the bag to her )you're not generous. Especially towards your family members."

I'll admit I'm not most generous person around, and I honestly don't see not having generosity to be a vice. You have to be discerning in the distribution of resources. So I say " People aren't generous"

Then she says something to the effect that, I won't help the family if the family is in trouble, implying that I'm squirreling my money away for my own purely selfish reasons.

At this point,I'm tempted to jump up with indignance,hurt and verbally lambast her back. Then, I thought, fuck it.Why I'm pushing my myself so hard now, is so that I can eventually equip myself get be successful, so that I can afford you and Daddy a no worries eventual tirement.

And you know what, Mom, you can't handle the truth. Maybe I'm overestimating myself her, or maybe I'm an arrogant twat but I simply don't trust you guys anymore when it comes to finances. My family will get my money if the NEED be, but I don't want the amount to be known explicitly, because its supposed to be a contingent if its worst case. Don't plan with me in it.

While I'm not purely family focused re my future career wise, part of it is achievement, but a huge part that drives me, is lifting us out of this financial distress which has plagued us for god knows how many fucking years, and I'm sick of it. Its tremendously painful and humbling, each time to have you guys look for jobs at the mercy of the cold,cruel corporate society.

You hurt, I hurt - but I don't show it.

Deep down, in my accordance to my time, my goal is to protect you. I'm rude, abrasive some cutting, because I'm dealing with my own whirlpool of stress,bitterness,anger and growing up that I have to deal with.

You say I'm hard, but I have to be - if not, how am I going to survive, much less conquer a small part of it for us?

The pain drives me.

It must be karma, Darling.

You haven’t lost your touch – you still manage to propel me to the highs and wrest me from them in seconds. Just over a week ago, souls bared – reliving our little thing that we’ve kept on for a while. No one chases the gloom away as effectively as you. What deep comfort we seek in each other. What I would do for you. How our lives seemed to be intertwined in such a contradictory mix of pleasure and pain for the rest of eternity,in your words? Still, I’ve become accustomed to your rejection, my callused heart taking unhealthy but desperate refuge in non-expectation, because disappointment blows. That’s why I’m hard sometimes, so I filter out most of the disappointment. I don’t trust everything you say.

How you promised to stopped smoking on my account, I never even prompted you to – I don’t see why you made that promise when you never meant to keep it. Layer upon layer of the dirt of disappointment. I already took heed not to have any unrealistic expectations otherwise. Your flippancy is at my expense. Fuck you.

I have been semi-successful in conditioning myself to believe that I’m not made for a relationship – which so far has been a self-fulfilling prophecy. Brief recurrent moments of passionate entanglement with you over and again over two years, somehow have never strengthened me enough to leave our history behind. Always for a period of time, then weakness strikes – and I let you back in my life again. Fuck you.

Those sporadic dalliances always leave me happy for a moment, only to kick me deep in the gut when reality sets its foot down. Fuck you.

I’ve gone way past the point of dreaming of a life spent with you till we grow old, where I can spend extended moments on lying on your chest, fingers entwined, our bodies, length to length – while I lie content simply listening to your rhythmic breathing. I wanted a relationship then – I was still a youngin’. Now, I’m just thinking of ways and means to lessen the pain whilst I keep you in my life.

I’m not meant for relationships.

My hopeless myth has obviously been shattered by your own cynical scorn. I might have laughed with you back then when I was younger, joining you in scoffing at the naiveté of the romantic love of others, when I myself had no clue then of what your sardonic cynicism really entailed. Even with the logical, rational equations of unhealthy unrealistic ideals.

I fancied myself in love then. Oh no, don’t get me wrong you’re still the most beautiful man in my eyes - I still love you, part of me always will.

I just think its goddamn fucking ironic that someone in your past had caused you so deep a pain, and you in turn have continuously inflicted it on me. Now, when we talk of the painted illusion of someone else’s romantic love, your pointed, resigned cynicism – I know exactly where you’re coming from. I taste the bitterness first hand.

I must have owed you a great deal in our past life, because I’m paying for it dearly now, Darling.

And fuck you.

You still can make a cold, hard bitch cry.

Aggro Concentrate

I feel like I have swallowed a bottle of it, its churning quite virulently in my tummy.

I hate everyone.

I feel like I'm 13 again.

Doh.Blue ears.

Every month or so, I re-dye my tresses blue black. Yesterday morning, was one of those occasions.

So you know, its nice to be looking your best at the start of the week. Plus, I was dressed rather spiffily because there was a talk re:treasury careers which required a corporate dress code.

Had my extra-ebonied tresses up, high in a ponytail,pearl stud earrings, black linen shirt,pinstripe pants and pointy toed shoes. So (I thought) strode into the city campus looking quite debonaire.

All the way up to marketing class - then it came to, too abrupt an end. First thing of my friends said to me was " Your ear got something." Self-consciously, I was like - what?, I touched them in reflex, and noticed a blue-black residue smeared on the tips of my fingers.

My nimble,quick mind sought to make sense of this peculiar occurence and I came quickly to the conclusion that,yup it was the hairdye. The sinking feeling grew heavier as I turned to my friend and asked him " Is it very bad?".

Barely concealing his amusement, he said " Quite obvious." Guffaw,guffaw.

Taking a deep,deep breath this was what I did - pop a mentos,let my hair down and feign a brave nonchalance.

We-eell,that's the truth sans the mentos part.

Was relating it to another friend today and she said comfortingly " It happens to even the best of us."

So there.

(If I could capture this singular moment, my chin would be jutting out. And if you're observant enough, you'd also probably notice that my chin's wobbly - and my lips curled into a pouty,pursed defiance.)

The Eye of the Storm ...

is a lonely place to be.

The pace of life is so hectic. With impending deadlines looming in the horizon - both short term as well as long term.

I choose the kind of life I want to lead. I set my pace. Sometimes in a desparate bid not to lose ground to emotional turbulances, I have this incredible knack for throwing myself in mind-numbing work.

Wake up - I have this to do, that to do, with the ultimate purpose of tiring myself out to the brink of exhaustion so that I can sleep immediately without having to live the moments of melancholia, that seem to plague me, especially in my solitary state.

Efficiency and effectiveness are my rule of thumb, I'm especially disclined to spend more effort that it is worth. I'd rather forgo the task, and be penalized for it. I get immense peaks,when the full bloom of my effectiveness is realized.

When everything is swirling around you at break-neck speed, I'm sometimes amused,fascinated and almost dazed as I watch the atom-like people in my surrounding collide. Colliding and forming a new type of matter. Vivid interactions begin to make me feel nervous. Nervous because an unnatural jealousy brews that I'm not part of it - eventually it does lose its momentum and fizzles out to an acute and crippling sense of emptiness that not even your friends can fill. It launches me into a pensive mode, where I can't quite function efficiently until I get it out of my system.

Like now - when I'm supposed to be doing some quantitative models.

It's catch-22 all over again.

By the Way

When I become ultra successful, when I've reached my peak given all that I can - enough to take care of my Mom, Dad and sister comfortably for life -

I think I might commit suicide.

Its such a seductive idea, to die at highest point.

Interruption at its finest.

Coitus interruptus.

How beautifully tragic.

What an exquisite waste.

There's a flaw in my perfect plan - Insurance companies don't payout to the beneficiaries of policy holders that commit suicide.

Bullshit.

Bah, I'm resourceful enough, I'll find a way round.

Glazed Eyes.

Patpong,Bangkok. I did go there for a reason.

Of course, I didn't expect to attain the same enlightenment equivalent to the Nirvana that Buddha did.

Here,the strip/live-sex shows also known as "Tiger Shows" are noticeably shoddier than the strip club I went to in Melbourne last year. The Star of the show was a Nordic Blonde with long,long leg's that would put Jack's Beanstalk to shame. The carefully choreographed and perfectly executed moves were stunning enough to put a Russian Olympic Gymnast to shame.

We've heard quite a bit about the sex shows. Taxi drivers solicited us, them gesticulating,wildly in hope that it would be descriptive enough to whet our interest. When all that failed, they took out a card with the goods/services up for sale.

" BOY MAKE LOVE GIRL "
" GIRL MAKE LOVE GIRL"

And of course when they played their trump, with the nearly completed transexual masterpieces, known as katoeys. Their description, " Snip,Snip" pointing to their chests, and groin.

We didn't go with them, but instead headed down ourselves. The streets were lined with girls, sitting by the roadside. It wasn't long before a crowd of live-show pimps, zeroed in on us. We were taken to a dodgy place, with the same menacing air that one might associate with an illegal underground gambling den. Grubby and sinisterly smokey.

It was a small place, slightly reminscent of the clautrophobic clubs along Mohamed Sultan Road. Club III, if you guys remember.There was a round stage in the middle. With 3 poles. The bulk of the main acts came from girls pulling objects out of their nether regions. From glow-in-the-dark knooted latex hankerchief types ( the sort magicians use), strings of pseudo mini-osh-koshs,ping pong balls (which one of my friend thought was a certain demonstration on how to concoct a Lychee Martini/ to smoking a cigarette/drawing with a marker using their birth canals). Admittedly, I vaguely fascinated, but soon got bored, as with all things repetitive.

I was more interested in watching a pot-bellied Aussie, fondle the boobs of one of the women there. Teasing him with a slightly calculative air. His leer also of a similar calculative edge - knowing that he could grab all he wanted without paying, as long as he decided not to shag her for the night.

Soon,a rude specimen of man, that of countrified calibre who seemed to be of Chinese/Vietnamese origin,was openly gawking and pointing. If actions could be directly translated into sounds - he'd be positively squawking. He opened his eyes so wide, I really couldn't help but feel like poking them out with a fork. He even tried to take a picture with his cell. When I thought his eyeballs couldn't pop out further, I was proven wrong again - when couple on stage started having sex.

It was mechanical. Every two thrusts,they turned like 25 geomentrical degrees,just so that the audience could see - perfunctory customer satisfaction policy. Finesse didn't make her appearance in any part of the acts.

Hip Hop/ RnB tunes not alien to that of a Uni Bash blasted, while they wiggled their hips. I found it amusingly ironic, that the setting minus the explicit acts, would be like that of the JC parties I attended couple years back. How different.

One of the women struck me. Though,I wasn't surprised. I had never seen a jaw so strong, nor eyes so hard, her lips curled into a sneer, as she slowly detached her mind from what her body was doing. Older of the lot - the other girls, younger - still had a bounce in them, trying to squeeze out a certain degree of appreciation(absolutely interchangeable in their terms with superfluous lechery.)from the audience.

The audience was mostly made up of curious tourists,and a small portion of actually lecherous men. Couples in the audience, the female counterpart, squeezing their eyes shut, or looking away in embarrassment as the night progressed. One of them even walked out.

Later in the night,a hairy Indian man became the object of my attention. Wedding ring noted. I think Pfizer would have a field day could milking Viagra essence concentrate from him. He was so amorous, that the moment he sat down, he was pawing the same woman ( with the aussie ) so vigorously that I became alarmed.The same vermin also wanted to take (unwelcome) part in audience participation - when another white college kid at the performer's request had to stick a ping pong ball up her fanny.

Like a Doberman let loose in a SPAM factory.

The nudity didn't faze me as I observed the different behaviors that were on display that night, nor did the explicit sexual acts. I was far more concerned in processing the scene going round me. Almost surreal.

I don't think I pitied/sympathized with any of the women.I don't think they wanted to be sympathized/pitied either. Though the thought of entertaining with the purpose of being a circus act, wrankled me. Irony being - that I also came with a degree of curiosity. I almost hate myself for satisfying that curiosity.

I watched them impassively as they watched me.

Glazed eyes.

That I remember quite clearly. I won't forget either.

Rebounds and Ricochets.

About this time last year, I was shattered – the devastation muted only by (in hindsight) a misplaced hope. Delusion then was a life buoy; it kept me going for a bit. Up till the point, when I made the realization that, “Look, it really isn’t going to happen.” By that time, I’ve recovered a bit from the trauma, and can handle the bitter pill of truth, marginally better. So how do actually get that buffer time zone?

Yeah, it’s a dirty word – smacks of selfishness.

R-E-B-O-U-N-D.

Had 2 or 3 of those going on– some even concurrently.

But if you asked me then if I they were my rebounds, I would vehemently declare indignantly, “REBOUND? MEEE?”, “No – no way.” And probably chuckle quite uneasily, and unconvincingly. Firstly, I wouldn’t believe that I- paragon of selfless virtue, would be capable of such an inhumane sin of selfishness. (Oh, yeah the self-delusion does go that far, I’m afraid.)

Secondly, I was in denial of my own weak, vulnerable, crushed state. I would have easily scoffed “I mean like - Hellooo? Why – would I NEED a rebound?”

[Disclaimer#1: annoying adolescent bimbo speaking is a persona.]
[Disclaimer#2: Rebounds do not help you get over the individual in question, but they’re useful in their distractive qualities]

I really did try to convince myself that I was trying to get to know them better, and perhaps … you know … things might work out. When you’re emotionally vulnerable, it’s a lot easier to undermine rationale. But by the second/third week, I was panicking and hyperventilating like an asthmatic on steroids. I was dropping hints, had explicit clear cut talks that I wasn’t in it for the long run. I have this annoying thing, called conscience a.k.a integrity hemorrhoids .None of them of course had a problem with it, because I’ve got (an unwitting) built in radar that detects people that aren’t looking for relationships. (It’s all destined, I’m afraid – even the signs showed back then)

You know what I find ironic, quite a number ongoing romantic occurrences between individuals actually are an inter-connected network of rebounds. I might have been rebounded for my heartbreaker. Other times when we’re both reboundees together in commiseration. It did happen once. Other unfortunate times, not. Then one person gets hurt, then he/she goes on another rebound, sparking a domino effect. It’s a vicious, vicious cycle.

Damn, as I’ve said before – God must have failed at theatre studies because he’s gotten the genres of tragedy and comedy mixed up.

I find myself in the position of potential reboundee. The individual in question has just gotten out of a relationship, and is probably missing the companionship that a relationship brings. Despite obvious signs of interest expressed towards me,rebound is written all of it.I don't quite mind getting to know the individual better. If things do take a turn for the romantic, I won’t quite object – it’s nice to hold someone once in a while. After so much heartache, I’ve been conditioned to handle such messy situations, with an almost callous air. I don’t fall in and out of love that easily.

While I'm more inclined to something short-term, I consider myself still open to something more serious, if it feels right, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

But for now, morphine flows in my veins.

Meaning for a brief moment of hugs, intimacy, my emotions are dispensable.

One day, this might come crashing down on me – all this baggage, that I’ve currently stemmed with a dam.

But what the hell.

Soul of a Nomad.

I've moved back here again. I've shifted - like what 4 times?

These couple of days have been a bit of a bummer. Family finances and all - it seems like a never ending source of grief, as with my own emotional baggage.

Was trying to work out my own cashflow, in light of a trip up to Vietnam, in December - what I didn't forsee, the tight finances. Meaning, no more $200 allowance from my parents. I've gotta rely on the rest of the income, from giving tuition.

Which also means, no trip to Vietnam, unless I:

1)Win the lottery.

2)Whore myself.

3)Win the Marketing Team Competition,which might give me a $600 leeway.

( In ascending order of likelihood )

I feel overwhelmed - and its not the Vietnam trip. That's the small stuff - I don't sweat the small stuff, its a small sacrifice. I loathe that we're in such a vulnerable position. Here's the sole reason why I'm trying to graduate as fast asap -then I'm empowered. Then, I'll be in a position to take care of the family.

So before I throw a pity party of myself, I'll write and think of my future. Its good motivation.I've refrained from ranting to any of my friends. Some things,are better handled by yourself. Even if it does get a little heavy to bear, sometimes.

Writing helps.

Here goes.

I'm going to adopt a kid.

After, I graduate and kick/lick moneyed butt in the corporate world.

Been thinking about this the entire week, and have come up with a tentative hypothesis that I'm one of the few "not created for romantic relationships". In the same way the Orwell fella says that some are more equal than others, I think that I'm one of those that function/live life better, without the complexities of a romantic relationship. You know the shit where people go, " I don't need relationships", I don't even think I can go there.

Nothing's cast in stone, its still tentative.

So marriage would be quite out of the question. Yes, I could probably go round in search of willing partners to help in my dream of procreation ( I like the process by the way ) - but I don't think I'll have the kid myself.2 reasons.firstly, if I do, I'll have to allow the father parental rights. It simply wouldn't do to deprive him of seeing his kid, skirmishes are bound to come up from close associations. Worse still, if I feel even more than affection for the father - then things get messy. Secondly, why bring another child into this world, when so many out there need willing and able parents?

Surface-wise, I'm not Mary-Poppin material - a certain few, have called me hard.

But you know what, despite my apparent clumsiness in that arena, I would love to be able to care for a child that needs a parent.