Go tally up. I scored 19/60. My favourite is No. 11.

I'll be Outta here by October.

Too fast, too fast.





Forgive the insanely huge photo.

What am I going to do without them? I will go crazy, my god.

Consensus

People can really surprise you.

I am utterly exhausted at this point, having spent the last three hours talking to my parents about Bangladesh. I am impatient and stubborn and easily irritable - exactly like my father. So conversations between us tend to, erm, get slightly heated.

But really. You'd think that living with them for 23.5 years would mean that there's very little they can do to surprise you. Oh boy, was I wrong.

It turns out that there was just one niggling thing, one issue, one point of contention that he had which was the cause for his resistance.

Just one.

After hours and days of arguing, you can imagine my shock when that little nugget of truth finally wriggled out. He never wanted to say it.

All that talk, and it was really just about that???

I can't believe it. And I can't say it either, because its really not going to make him look good.

Well, all I can say is this - he's usually wrong about mw, but this time, he was spot on. His one and only worry turned out to be the only valid worry.

I apologise for all the cryptic-ness in the last couple of posts.


Nothing is confirmed, but after tonight's debacle, things are finally moving in the right direction.

On a Friday night

It's been quite a while, and I must say, my tequila is tasting extra special tonight.

It's a strange feeling to be drunk in your own home. I don't typically blog or write when I'm drunk because all that comes out is emotional and depressive rubbish, but I am thankfully neither emotional nor depressed, so there's no real danger.





I found myself wanting to attend the NDP, true blue kiasu Singaporean that I am, because I wanted to see for myself how they would do it in the new location.

I perversely enjoyed the defense display. I might not have if i hadn't already watched Transformers twice (the movie made me love metal), but I really thought it was quite bizarre when the machine guns mounted on the boats started to fire blanks.

Well at least this year they made it real clear - we can kill you if we have to.

I never really got into the mood, even though it was much more picturesque than the Stadium. It was just too different and foreign.

And I really really hated the fact that they renamed the Kallang Wave. And the hosts were screechy and very irritating.

What I do like is the location, ironically enough, because I could see how hundreds of other people thronged the coastline along the Esplanade, One Fullerton and even Marina/Raffles Place area. At least everyone had a great view of the fireworks.

I don't think I'll ever want to attend NDP again. Unless I'm shooting, of course.



Sat down at Dhoby Ghaut to take in the scene before going home. The two of them were already going at it, and by the time I noticed them, the girl was discreetly trying to wipe away some tears. I have no idea what they were arguing about, but it looked like a employee-employer argument. I did not envy the girl. That is no way to spend a Friday night.



And look, I understand loitering and loud laughter and cursing at the top of your voice. I understand! You're 15 and you want to be heard. I'm still doing the exact same thing.

But I really, really don't understand spitting. I don't get what is cool about it. As long as you're not 70 years old with a chronic phelgm problem, you really shouldn't be ejecting spit in public.

Dilemma

I used to know the answers to my own questions. Most of the time, anyway.

I don't think it has been particularly difficult in knowing what to do, it was just doing-it part that was tough.

So I switched jobs although I didn't really want to because I knew it was the right thing to do. I haven't regretted that decision yet, although I do pine and whine. I went to NTU and I did this and did that, went here and travelled there - and really, I don't think I've had to make any sort of difficult choices.

Because you run on instinct, and instinct usually gives you only one answer. It's just a matter of whether you want to take it up.

But there is always a first time for everything.

My instincts are all silent right now. For once, I think I really don't know what I should do.

I always talk about leaving this place. I knew it was just a matter of time, but I guess I never expected the opportunity to come so soon. I never expected having to tally the losses, what i would be leaving behind.

I always wanted to go back to Bangladesh. I kept my eyes and ears peeled for potential jobs. Who would've thought one would just fall in my lap?

And who would've thought that the day would come when I would finally have to actually think about money?

My father has already made it clear he would not support me on this choice. Who would've thought the day would come when I actually cared what my father thought?

A year ago, I would've made the choice easily. There was nothing to hold me back. I can't believe how much has changed, and how clueless I've become.

I don't know lah.

Wrote this last Monday. I'm posting it anyway.

Something's slightly different these days. I can't be explicit about it because it's personal, but if you think I look different (could be for the better, but more likely the worse), you're right. And I think I'm happier this way.

It took me five years to stop doing this, and I just did it all of a sudden, overnight. I think it isn't technically a big deal, but because I know why I started doing it in the first place... well it's a big deal.

Sorry to be so cryptic. I can't say! I am embarrrrrassssed (I decided a while back that I would give up trying to spell that word).

----------------------------------

The last time I wore the exact same attire was six years ago. Or, to be down with the details, it would mean six and a half years have passed since the last time I wore this and carried a shoebag. I can’t remember when was my last touch rugby training, but I think I got the date about right.

We had our second badminton office thingamahjig today, and I grabbed the only other shirt that I do sports in (rather unwilling to don the dri-fit sleeveless stuff for a rough-and-tumble event). I made the mistake of not bringing another, and that is how I found myself going home from Somerset on the MRT, wearing the PE attire from JC which I used to wear with such regularity six years ago.

I didn’t realise the faux pas until I left the center and faced the eyes of the public. I’m sure the majority didn’t really care or look, but I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had no problems believing I was 18.

GQ said I was greedy, that I was asking for a hefty six-year discount.

The trip home was one of the most surreal experiences I have ever encountered. I had put on the most effective mask, the most complete costume I had at my disposal to fool public perception.

And I think I could’ve fooled myself.

How easy it was, to look at my own reflection, and imagine that I was 18 again. I almost didn’t have to pretend, I could feel it. It felt very real, it didn’t feel like a farce.

Of course, my hair is thrice the length now than it was back then. I have at least five extra kilograms on my frame, and a hell lot more scars on my legs to boot. I know I couldn’t fool myself to think my look hasn’t changed, but I could deceive myself into feeling the same – the way I felt when I was thinner, with shorter hair, nicer legs, and a helluva lot more energy.

I walked out of the station and waited at the bus stop. It was a combination of public perception (I believed what people believed about me), and pure emotive nostalgia. I can’t get anymore specific than that, but its just how you assume the role that you associate with that particular uniform/attire.

And just closing my eyes, I let myself believe it. I was on my way home after a long day at school. I would call Nick the moment I reached home and find out where he was and if he needed a morning call the next day. I would have to unpack my bags later, because I no longer kept proper notes on homework and I always ended up forgetting. I would sleep late again, ICQing no doubt, and the next day I would be late for school and have to stand at the side along with all the other punctuality-pariahs.

It felt good. It felt familiar. And then you open your eyes, and its as if someone hit the fast forward button, and all the things that have passed since then filters into your mind’s eye at breakneck speed. People and places, things and faces.

At this present moment, this very second, this is the furthest I could possibly be from that 18-year-old self. And I suppose, every minute that passes will make it more and more difficult for me to play pretend.

----------------------------------







Speaking of time. I met someone from my 12-year-old self.

I never latched onto Facebook because of how Friendster left a (very very) bad taste in my mouth. But hey.

Victoria Noreen Langton.

We were in the same class from Primary 3 to 6. I can't remember much anymore. My memory tells me that I believed she was one of my best friends, in the way that a 12 year old would classify friends, anyway.

I don't remember much about what we did. Well, at least not the details. I remember being prefects together, going to her house (to do what? I can't remember). I memorised her house phone number till i was about 16, and now I can't recall it any longer.

She was exotic because she was the first girl I knew who was eurasian. I remember she got into an argument with our teacher about homework because her parents didn't believe in her doing all those assessment books.

I remember we labelled her as the wild child. She had boyfriends before I was interested in boys. I remember a lot of judgements being passed.

I remember we had a lot of fun.

And I remember seeing her again about three years ago, standing in Orchard Library and watching a performance. I don't know if she had seen me, because if she did she sure did a good job of pretending she didn't. I didn't say hello. I had nothing to say to her.

Strange, because now, i really really want to talk to her.

I passed I passed I passed!!!!

Finally.

Ho Weng Hin’s excellent column in ST today:

“...the publicity and fanfare that has surrounded the
impending demolition of the stadium, makes me think of a
grand and protracted funeral staged for a person who is still alive and kicking.”

As quoted by Tym, Alfian Sa'at's play, Homesick:

"How can we build a national identity if we keep tearing down everything with the word 'national' in it?"

And as I said a year ago... well, read it here.

Pardon the angst

Been on an angst rampage of late, and although there is a long list of reasons, I'd much prefer to just not talk about it because hey, guess what, its better now.

The importance of maintaining status quo aside, there's just too much scattered-ness in my head to write anything thematic.

I do have to do a half-hearted shout out to ask if anyone is looking to adopt a kitten?

I sent out an SMS appeal about a week and a half back. A couple of interested ones, but none who could take it immediately.

I found her, as how I seem to find all my cats, on my way home and completely by accident. My mother received a phonecall from the resident cat lady who asked if we could go take a look because she wasn't free, and I had a small ball of dread in my stomach because i just knew what was going to happen.

And really, this one didn't leave us any choice either. Hiding in some corner under a table and trying to stay away from the claws of the resident cat (who's very cute and all but quite a monster).

I didn't know what to make of this one. Her ears are too big, her eyes are too "not cute" and after her bath and meal - she was too hyper and I now wake up in the middle of the morning because of her constant bouncing-here-and-there-and-everywhere and she usually lands up on my face during a couple of those leaps.

The two cats are now used to her, it's been almost two weeks after all, and I didn't make the mistake of SHOCK AND AWE like I did the last time (with very disastrous results).

The main problem now is I don't know how to talk about them because I don't have proper names for them. I can't use the Big Cat/Small Cat dichotomy anymore. Small Cat is now Fat Cat. So now we'll have Old Cat, Fat Cat and New Cat. They're all my bitches.

Fat Cat is still extremely wary, and prone to stupid hissing-then-running. Old Cat, no doubt learning from past experience that the young 'uns are not worth her energy, have been playing it quite cool. I love her.

So yeah, she's been with us too long and I think I just may be able to keep her without the parents kicking up a fuss.

But just in case, does anyone want her?



I had a camera phone pic of her that I used to try and "sell" her to my colleagues. They asked "do you have a nicer pic? Where she looks cuter?"

Ok, I'm not letting her go to anyone who adopts kittens based on how "cute" they are. I'll tie a fucking ribbon in her hair, how about that?



I love Fat Cat too, but I think she's a bit stupid. This is what I call the Blank Stare.



This one? Oh she's above criticism.



------------------------------------



Two days after Ishi's death, my Mom came home and started to tell us (again) about a colleague of hers. A year younger than me, incredibly fucked up life as far as fucked-up-lives as concerned. My mom's at her wit's end, and it seems no amount of talking is doing any good. Relationship problems, personal problems etc etc. I suppose my mom's just worried because no one should be able to live like this, and many people choose not to, after a while.

And I didn't know what to tell her. And I went to sleep.

I'm not thinking about Ishi because I don't know what to think. I don't know him well at all, and I guess I just didn't want to think about it. Mental resistance.

I went to work the next day and wanted to listen to a song that I had heard in bits and pieces elsewhere but didn't know what it was. I searched for it on youtube, and I just think it's fucking ironic how things turn out sometimes, because the song was this one.

And I listened to it and read the lyrics.

And then I went online and searched and searched. I wrote down a long list of hotline numbers and phone numbers and addresses of places that offered free counselling services, and I went home to give it to my mom.

Invisible

Do you know what it feels like to sit in a group of males and to ask a question three times only to be ignored on all three occasions?

Maybe I speak to softly and no one can hear me. Yeah that's it, I've a soft voice.

Of Mice and Men

Too many things to say, and I've already forgotten half of it.

It's late, I've bike lesson assessment tomorrow. Today I held the fuckin' clutch for so long my left hand started to go numb. It's ridiculous. I've held off going for this because I want to pass on the first try. So I keep going for circuit revision. All exams should be this way.

The blog title is slightly misleading, because there will be no mention of men in this post.

I've wanted to say something about this particular incident, but I couldn't think of a way to put it. I'll still end up sounding like a preachy, righteous bitch. So there, there's your disclaimer.

And anyway, my memory (and anger) have been somewhat diminished by the passing of time.


The issue has got something to do with male ego, and how I'm sick and tired of it. But that's just a small part. It's largely inconsequential. Many guys get away with their egos because it's harmless. I can tolerate displays of machoism simply because it's so common it's difficult not to get used to it. Like how my colleague puts it, "You want to know why? Because I'm a man."

But really, this is about stupidity and irresponsibility. It's about me feeling judgemental and self-righteous and losing respect for ccertain individuals.

We had a party of sorts earlier in the week, resulting in typical intoxication. There was one particular guy who had drunk more than his fair share, till the point whereby he was slurring and couldn't stand straight.

And he was driving home.


I'm hoping to be able to ride a bike. My father rides a bike to work everyday. I've countless other family and friends who drive or ride. So even if you discount the selfishness (of me not wanting to die), I have motivation because I really don't want anyone (strangers included) to die because some asshole was too macho/cheap to call a cab.

And so this is the point of this post. I just want to say, once and for all:

That all you fuckers who drink and drive, and all you fuckers who let your friends drink and drive - you are all unbelievably stupid and irresponsible.



So in this particular episode, after the drunk guy went to the bathroom, I asked his "friends" whether or not he was driving. And when they said yes, I asked if perhaps it was not such a good idea to let him do so.

This is what one of his "friends" said to me, irritably and loudly:

"I don't give a fuck! He's not going to bring in any money for us anyway!"


This asshole was drunk as well, although not as much as the other guy. The alcohol in his blood made him feel liberated, and he had no qualms about speaking his mind. Just as well, one less person to respect in office.

And just minutes ago, he was ranting on about how he did whatever he wanted to do, wife-be-damned. "Hey! A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do" were his exact words.


I went into the restaurant and asked the waitress for some help. She gave me a class of fizzy soda water, which was supposed to make Mr Drunk Driver feel better. I tried my best to force it on him (I don't know him at all) when he came out, but he got confused and thought I was making him drink more.

The tussle ended soon enough, and he took a tiny tiny sip before heading out to sit with his "friends". But this time, he could barely keep his eyes open.

I stood next to him, like a fucking moron, cajoling him to drink while all his "friends" - whom I didn't know either - pretended to ignore me. It wasn't really working, he couldn't even hold the glass for long.

The painfully awkward scene continued for a while more, till all of them left. I asked one last time, "Do you want a cab?" Drunk dude said he was fine. Sure, of course, aren't they always?

I can't remember when he left, but he did. And still, I tried again. I asked his 'friend', the one who (money=how concerned I should be), if we should try to get him a cab.

I can't remember what he ranted at me, more "i don't give a fuck"s and other things that I must've blocked out of my head because of the sheer stupidity.

I replied, that I didn't really care either if the guy died, but I don't want him to knock down someone like my father while on the road.

Then he said, "Look! I'm not a saint!"

I turned and walked away as he continued, only stopping after he realised I was no longer listening.




I don't know what to think about it. I'm disgusted and slightly upset, because I didn't know what to do. I hate the thought that the same scene if replaying every night at pubs and bars all over Singapore. I wish I didn't have to witness such behaviour, because as it is, I don't really think much of the male species, and this is not helping.

They should have a police hotline or something, to call when this kind thing happens. I couldn't have possibly manhandled his car keys away from him.

Are there really such people around? Was that friend of his talking nonsense because he was drunk? Did he really willingly let a guy go off to his potential death because he was not a potential money tree?

I just keep meeting assholes. I never knew there were so many of these kinda bastards around. What kind of world did I think existed? It's not good, it makes me cynical. And I just haven't learnt how to deal with them, how to put on a smile and pretend I don't feel that overwhelming sense of disgust that fills me when I look at you.

Of course, there are guys I know who would never drink and drive, and who would never allow their friends to do so. I am thankful to know such people.


I just hope no one died last night because I didn't have the guts to be a bigger bitch than I already was.

Funny quote today:

"All that they can do is to blow bombs and not really have the guts to confront us."
- Afghan President Hamid Karzai

Bumper Crop

Sometimes things get done when you don't think. Which explains my highly developed procrastination abilities since I think too much. Things also get done when you have a good double-espresso.

Few tasks suck me in so completely as dealing with pics. Finally uploaded my stuff dating from Feb, all done for Lexean. I'm posting them as part of a portfolio and in the name of fair use. Copyright still remains with them, though. Not all the pics were used in the magazine, but this is my own personal selection.

Click on the photos to be directed to the sets on Flickr.

Issue 2 : Beautiful Strangers

Issue 3 : Singapore Insomnia

There's another set I'm not posting here because it's not been published.

So generally I'm not satisfied with anything that I've done. The flaws are too obvious. I need more constructive criticism, but I'm just very glad for a chance to learn from mistakes. I'm not kidding when I tell you all these pics are accurately reflect the way I think. No direction, no instructions. So it was just me and my haphazardness. Which explains why some photos will make people frown and struggle for kind words.

But it's ok guys, I like to believe that I'm my own harshest critic and ego maintainer - all rolled in one.

It's about what you don't do.

I read this a couple of years back, and read it again this afternoon and I still love it. Utilitarian concepts of charity - I can't argue with it, and I love it, but I still can't do it.

"Then, if we value the life of a child more than going to fancy restaurants, the next time we dine out we will know that we could have done something better with our money.

If that makes living a morally decent life extremely arduous, well, then that is the way things are. If we don't do it, then we should at least know that we are failing to live a morally decent life — not because it is good to wallow in guilt but because knowing where we should be going is the first step toward heading in that direction."

Hot stuff

Slightly obsessed with this character right now.


Yeah i know my last couple of posts may seem self-contradictory, but I assure you they're not. Just prone to bouts of randomness these days.

Nothing new, nothing to update.

I came across some photographs of Johnny Depp that I had collected a couple of years ago.

Sigh.

I read somewhere that they polled dominatrixes and he was the number one fantasy sub.

I can't say I'm surprised. If I had Johnny Depp tied up there's no way I'm letting him go. They don't make ropes thick enough these days.



Sigh.

Dressing digression

I get a fair bit of flak for constantly griping about this topic. No one seems to understand, and most people think I'm making too big a deal out of nothing.

And honestly, I do agree with these people. They do have a point. If you look hard enough, there are just so many things that have the potential to piss you off, and this seems to be one of those cases that should be ignored and over-looked - unless you really are looking to be pissed off. I think they figure that I'm making my life unnecessarily misearble by choosing not to look the other way.

I'm actually talking about me in skirts. Me, in skirts or dresses or any piece of clothing that doesn't wrap my two legs individually.

And even though I wear these to work fairly regularly, because I just don't have that many pants to last the week, it never fails to elicit a comment or two.

Now, this is something I really don't understand.

I'd understand the ribbing if it took place in ST, because I back then I didn't wear skirts at all and it would be ridiculous to do so if you've to be prepared to climb ladders and lie down on floors.

So a comment would be more than justified for the sheer novelty of the situation.

But now?

It's been almost half a year, and I've gone through the wardrobe a couple of times. The novelty should have worn off, although I don't understand why it was even there to begin with. And to be really completely honest, the comments are RARE. But I'm still griping about it anyway because one time is one too much.

Let me be more specific.

There are the women, who make kind and polite comments that girls make sometimes when they're in a good mood - oh I like your dress, you look nice today, where did you get it from.

I don't care about that. I do the same thing too. A lot of these are small-talk fillers when you pass each other in office.

What I don't get, and what I don't like - are the questions that insinuate it is strange for me to be wearing a dress.

"I notice you've been dressing differently these days, eh?" - smirk smirk wink wink

Let me summarise their points:
- I am trying to look more feminine
- I am trying to dress better
- I am putting in effort at looking more feminine
- I've decided to look niceer at work (aka more feminine)

Someone actually said, "Keep it up!"

Fuck. You.

Like I said yesterday before walking away from the conversation, "I don't see the difference between skirt and pants. Clothes are clothes."

The dude replied, oh yes, there is a difference. And he gave an all-knowing smile. Your secret's safe with me, that smirk seemed to say. We both know there's a difference, but I'll let you pretend that you don't agree.



Now, I don't think anyone has followed me long enough to reach this part of the ramble. And I must apologise because I don't think I'm going to do a very good job at explaining myself.

Some disclaimers first. I am (obviously) too sensitive, too defensive and extremely poor at receiving compliments.

A lot of what I say here will be speculation. While I am aware I may be completely wrong, but this is just me trying to explain what goes on in my head and why I get so pissed off.




Let me begin with the word objectification.

A girl in a dress is easier to understand than a girl in pants. In my case, because I seem to be known for being a pants-lover, a cross over to the world of skirts seem to be interpreted that I only did so because I had an epiphany of sorts.

That I've realised, oh! skirts make me look better and more feminine. And because I want to look better and more feminine (after all, which normal female wouldn't??), I will wear skirts.

It doesn't seem possible that there is no reason behind the skirt-wearing. It doesn't seem possible that men are not part of the equation.

Going out furthur on this already precarious limb, let me continue by saying I believe - (some) men derive satisfaction from seeing women feminise themselves.

There could be many reasons for this. A boost of ego from seeing women realise their place in men's eyes? A subconscoius belief that he is amongst the group of men she is trying to attract and impress? A surrender of sorts?

Ah... it turns out Jess was just like the rest of them, she just took a little longer to realise it.

Interestingly enough, the one guy who has not made any comments about me in skirts is also the only guy to compliment me on my dressing when I wore pants.




For some reason, I just have too many negative things associated with this situation. Too many implications come into my head at the sound of one simple remark.

I don't know why I turned out this way, I don't know why I refuse to be associated with the word feminine.

Actually, that's inaccurate. I'm fine with the concept (I have pink pants for god's sake), I just I refuse to let anyone associate me with that word.

So while I'd like to be able to apologise for being a constipated, ungrateful bitch who doesn't appreciate compliments and just has to learn to RELAX and not take things so seriously - I'd like to really understand why I feel this way.





Gender issues have been in the spotlight (in my mind) recently. I don't know what sparked it off. But a lot of what I feel is extremely emotional and instinctive, like some sort of biological-defence-response.

And when I read this article, a lot of it made sense. I can't claim to understand it since I haven't been through the same thing it, but if you'll refer to this blog post I did make a passing reference to how I felt about having to cover up.

But Megan Stack really said it best. The paragraph below describes what happened to her after living in sexist Saudi Arabia:

A view from behind the veil
By Megan K. Stack

Excerpt:

"I would find that I still saw scraps of Saudi Arabia everywhere I went. Back home in Cairo, the usual cacophony of whistles and lewd coos on the streets sent me into blind rage. I slammed doors in the faces of deliverymen; cursed at Egyptian soldiers in a language they didn't speak; kept a resentful mental tally of the Western men, especially fellow reporters, who seemed to condone, even relish, the relegation of women in the Arab world."

And anyone who thinks that Singapore is not sexist - you're wrong.

I can't believe

that the CNA morning news presenter actually got up from his cushy sofa to pseudo-tap dance with two Australian dudes that were performing on set to promote their upcoming Arts Fest show.
He actually did that. When the guys had a good beat going, all of a sudden he popped into view and was flailing his arms about like a monkey and attempting to tap dance. And when he realised he couldn't he just went all out and did his worst.

It wasn't funny.

Let the good times roll

We interrupt everything for this important announcement:

Jessica holds an imaginary conversation with the five girls seated across her.

"Hello, while I think your topic of conversation is highly intruiging, and would love to find out how your debate on whether 'location' is an external or internal factor ends, I would also like to be able to enjoy reading in peace in a public place that has been designated for quiet reading without being distracted by your faint attempts to whisper which in actual fact makes all of you sound breathless and in no way decreases the noise level.

Thank you."

Just some stuff from Jakarta.

Let's start with the mandatory cat shot, shall we?



Most of the cats there were rather sorry-looking, save for this one at the port of Sunda Kelapa. I call this the what-the-fuck look.

And then moving on to the usual silhouette shot:



Sunda Kelapa, an old port that was my favourite part of the whole trip because I visited it during the off-peak hours and it was nearly empty and extremely peaceful. A far cry from the chaotic mess of the rest of the city.



And this was in Kota, the old section of the city much akin to our Chinatown. I didn't feel that much of a Dutch presence as I had expected, but that could be because I'm already used to seeing colonial-like houses in Singapore.

I tell people I could live there, and there's some truth to it since I do crave chaos and dysfunction in my cities. But on hindsight, I wonder how long I would survive it.

If there's one thing about Singapore that I won't be bitching about anytime soon, its the ability to walk around alone at 4 am in the morning. That's something I prize highly, and I'm not ready to give that up just yet.

Act X1, Sc XXV

So after my stomach has begun to quit whining about food poisoning, I start sneezing all day and as I type this, there's a familiar stuffiness in my nose and I can feel a flu coming on.

I guess pictures are not all i brought back from Jakarta.

And no, it was not the glorious street food, it was sushi at some yuppie up-market Holland V-ish place.



------------------------------


I've been accused by various friends and ex-boyfriends of being a lover of Drama. I can say for sure that I've been quite successfully weaned off it.

Overload.

A typical scene on Friday night for me includes an argument about where to go, pros and cons are weighed, other alternatives are brought up, but generally discussions end with the consensus that Singapore's boring and there's nothing to do.

On a Friday night in Jakarta, only a fool would be at a loss of where to go.

In the last 48 hours (less actually, since I arrived mid-afternoon on Thurs), I've realised that this city is crazy. Of course it also required extremely thick-skinned behaviour on my part, and I am not exaggerating when I say that i'm solely dependent on the kindness of strangers this trip.

So there was a midnight bike ride through the highways and streets with a member of the hotel staff that had agreed to bring me on a tour after he knocked off his shift at midnight. We streaked past Blok M, something like Tanjong Pagar bar area gone mad, and the yuppified Kemang area. Then there was the Kramat Jati wholesales market at 2 am in the morning, which I would have not been prepared for if i had not already been to Kawan Bazaar in Dhaka.

I met mostly expats yesterday, during my tour to a couple of bars with the Dutch man who owns them. Lots of oil and gas players, teachers from international school and various others.

There was a man from Nashville, a pot-bellied, pig-faced man with 20-year-old twin daughters back home, an oil and gas engineer who drank his double shot whisky and grabbed waitresses hands and waists, making the young girls squeal. He took out a thick wad of 100,000 Rupiah notes and I started to take photos. He said, "Wait, I'll give you something to shoot."

And he reached into his pocket and brought out another wad of money, a rolled-up stack of US hundred-dollar bills, and began peeling them off in slow motion and I just kept shooting. He threw one on the table, and told his waitress-darlings to go "spilt it amongst themselves".

"Men are animals," said the Dutch bar. I couldn't agree more.

A song came on in the bar, some woman singing about what the meaning of love is.

"I used to love this song. What is love?" he said. "Now I don't give a fuck."

Breather

I leave for Jakarta on Thursday.

Slightly bittersweet. I've been aching to travel, but this is really a make-or-break chance for me to prove to my bosses that they didn't hire a good-for-nothing. So it'll be horribly stressful, but I'll be enjoying it in a perverse way.

It didn't turn out to be the gritty trip I expected it to be. As of 10 pm tonight, a last minute grasp yielded me a beautiful room in a beautiful hotel. This is more than what I expected, which was nothing, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't fucking overjoyed.

I'll rough it if I have to rough it. No problems with that. If I get a free stay in an four-star hotel with awesome clean sheets and a bar, well... I suppose this would be a good time to talk about how nice hotel rooms make me unbelievably happy.

I love them! I just hate the price. I love the tucked-in sheets, the nicely arranged toiletries, the neatly folded towels, the bathrobe hanging in the cupboard, even the freakin' free writing pad and pen.

But mostly now, i'm just glad I have a place to stay.



Seeya soon.

Idols

I had actually typed a rather unhappy post, the usual mid-morning pessimistic rant, till I got distraced with all the American Idol chatter and decided to watch old clips of my undisputed favourite of all time - Elliot.

Few things can lift my mood so drastically. Ah well, what can I say, that man's voice makes me very very happy.





Bike lesson again. Went fairly well. I personally think I could've passed it, but maybe they're just not comfortable letting a girl pass a lesson on the first try. And I don't blame them, really. The three girls in the same class as me certainly did not inspire any confidence whatsoever, and all they did today was to prove to anyone watching that there are just some things girls can't do.

Ok bad move, that was the point of the prior unhapp post that I had managed to erase. If I start talking about stereotyping i'm going to have to watch Elliot again and I have to sleep, so I won't.

Everyman

"Or had he run to painting in an attempt to deliver himself from the knowledge that you are born to live and you die instead?"
- Everyman, Philip Roth

I hadn't finished a good book in a long time. Hell, I don't even think I've actually read a book in months. But the book was a gift, and it came highly recommended so I stuck with it. Initially tedious, since I'm not usually a fan of memoir-types, having started out with Stephen King and John Grisham, I have a tendancy to prefer my books fast-paced.

But it ended up with me reading on the steps of the MRT station, getting up only when the shutters were coming down, and devouring the last page while standing motionless in the middle of the pavement under a street lamp.

Last night, I fell asleep in the middle of reading. I think that's one of the basic pleasures of life that I seldom have a chance to enjoy. You're hardly in the mood to read when you're exhausted.

But the book is good, though slightly depressing. I don't deal well with philosophical insights on death and mortality. Not recently, since I've been thinking about Jesse and Yen.




I'm restarting the gym visits after a two-week hiatus. On Monday I ran till I felt as if my lungs were going to give out, and when I stopped five minutes before the usual quota there were those tell-tale white spots in my vision that made me think I might collaspe. If there's anywhere less embarassing to have a fainting spell than in a gym and on a treadmill - well I'd like to know.

It was probably because I only had two hours of sleep the night before, and today's session went much better. No white spots, at least.

Gave myself an undeserved treat and watched 28 Weeks Later. I enjoyed it thoroughly, because in spite of my inability to cope with death and such, I actually enjoy it on the big screen. People can be so strange sometimes. There's a line someone told me recently, about how people deal with their fears by turning them into fantasies. I guess this must be it.

A movie experience for me requires three things. One, a sweater because I don't like being cold when I can be warm. Two, a drink. Three, centre seats as close to the screen as possible without having to strain my neck and eyes.

So today's was perfect because I had all three.




One the way to the MRT station after the movie, I saw a couple that had just finished shopping at Carrefour, carrying a couple of shopping bags each. The man was Caucasian, in his early 40s I reckon. The woman, a petite Chinese in a green dress, probably around mid-30s, although I know she'll be insulted if she knew I guessed that.

The man wanted to take enter the MRT station, presumably to take the train. He turned and started up the steps, only to stop midway because of something the woman was saying to him.

I couldn't really hear her words, but I did hear those she repeated emphatically, as if saying it more would make it more true.

"I'm tired."Pause. Repeat.

The man replied, gesturing towards the station. The woman scowled, and kept walking slowly towards the main road while continuing to talk and repeating those two words again and again.

At one point, she stopped and looked him sternly and scowl-wingly and said, "I'm TIRED" in a way that was suppose to end the argument.

Her scowl was horribly irritating. It did end the argument, and I suppose they went off to hail a cab.

Maybe they just had a fight. Maybe she has a leg conditon that makes it painful for her to be on her feet too long. Maybe she just got fired or had a dose of bad news.

Let's hope she has her reasons, because if a woman as unpleasant as that can find someone to tolerate her, I can't even begin to wonder what's wrong with me.






Oh! Did I just say that! Here we go, the wallowing!

I'm kidding. No wallowing. I just read a book about a man who died with nothing after having everything, so I should be allowed to muse for a bit.

And that is not a plot giveaway, I assure you.