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.

Postcards from Interzone

The past four days have been a tempest of utter abandonment, impetuous decisions and broken rules.

And just when I had a routine and things were picking up a drumbeat and pace, and when I had forgotten the vulnerability that comes with have any sort of emotions at all. Outrageous fortune, indeed.

But all the rules I broke were my own, and if I wrote them I suppose I can change them. There is one last rule that remains intact - and by virtue of the fact that it is the sole remaining rule - it is also the sum of all I have ever believed in, distilled to to barest essense and if I were to lose this, I may lose everything.

I am exhausted with my return to reality.

What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
The violence of either grief or joy
Their own enactures with themselves destroy:
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.
This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange
That even our loves should with our fortunes change;
For 'tis a question left us yet to prove,
Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
- Hamlet, Act III, Sc II

How cute is it that I watch Ian Wright wax lyrical over Vienna on cable, and then come in and tune in to the internet radio and Falco's Vienna Calling starts playing!

How cute, how cute.

I don't even know Falco. I just know that happy 80s music makes me incredibly happy.

Why don't we steal away/why don't we steal away/into the night.

La la la.

Bike lesson on Friday!

That rare and elusive night slot. I had hesitated quite a bit at the booth because I wasn't sure if I would have plans but well. This is all connected to my 'say yes then see how later' attitude.

Nothing to write about. Work going on ok. Many late night this week because the photo essay is on Singapore in the wee hours of the morning. As for today - finishing up one more so that I can clear myself to concentrate on the photos for the rest of the week.

And I realised that I do enjoy writing. Just spend too much time collecting data and the writing process goes so fast I can hardly savour it.

Ok back to coffee and work.




3.30am Update : Can I just say that making international calls to interview people thrills me to death?

Last night I dreamt (yes I do that a lot) I was at a dinner gathering with pre-arranged seating.

There were little white cards to tell you where you were supposed to sit.

Slightly distracted by making small talk as I went from table to table, I somehow couldn't seem to find out where my place was even though there were plenty of empty seats and unclaimed white cards left.

As I stood milling around, chatting to someone, a host of sorts came up to ask me why I was not yet seated.

I told him I couldn't find my card, and I didn't know where to go.

His face widened into an expression of friendly incredulity, turned on his polished black heel and swept his arms in a flourish towards the empty seat nearest to us.

"Its right there!"

How could I have missed it? I walked over, and on printed on the little card sitting in the middle of my plate was 'Photographer'.

"Oh. I guess that must be me."

邻居

I bumped into him a few months ago when we both took the same lift home late at night. I remember thinking it had been years since I last met him, and we exchanged pleasantries and he said he had been overseas helping out his brother's business. It was very successful and doing well, he said. I was still in ST then, and had to quickly explain why I had a camera slung across my shoulder.


The same thing happened again tonight. I recognised his shape as I approached the lift, and smiled as he turned around and recognised me.

"Where's your camera?"

More small talk as the lift chugged along slowly. It turns out he's in real estate now.

"Here take my namecards and give them out."

"Ok I'll call you if I ever have to interview a real estate agent."

He handed me too many, and I used my foot to keep the lift door open and tried to return some.

"Ha, its fine, I've got thousands of these."


Was it really more than ten years ago when we were friends? Sitting next to each other on the around the green table in our chinese tuition teacher's house, egging each other to slack off? A decade since we took turns to lie on the couch and rest as the other was having 听写?

We used to race downstairs after tuition, to see if the lift could beat a human sprinting down 13 flights of stairs at breakneck speed. As far as I recall, it never could.

I can't remember why we had classes together. Maybe the timings was mixed up. It didn't matter since we were the same age and learning the same things.

There was an incident when we were hanging out at the staircase metres away from my flat and I fell on the stairs and hit my ribs on the edge of the steps. I was in so much pain I begged him to call the ambulance, but he just looked slightly shocked and didn't. I think I was pissed off. But the pain subsided and so did my anger.

I don't remember talking to him much after that period. We grew up I suppose, that awkward secondary school phase when you didn't smile unless yhou had to.

Well, not until tonight anyway. I thought it was nice. I liked the idea of interviewing my neighbours.



I reached home and gave his namecards to my Mom.

She took one look and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh so he's released already?"

"Released? From where?"



So it was all a lie.

When I throwing waterbombs and living out the next awkward phase of my life in JC he was robbing and molesting women in my neighbourhood. He was convicted, dealt a jail sentence too painful to consider for someone at that age and a horrifying number of cane strokes.

I dug it all up online and read the details in disbelief. It wasn't just petty theft. It was violent and horrific. He attacked one woman in the lift, led her to a staircase landing, bound, gagged, stripped and molested her.

His namecards are still stacked on my desk in front of me.

Its still the same face that sat across from me as we read aloud dizzying chinese characters in a small HDB apartment.

So as I had my first boyfriend, got drunk in clubs, contemplated which career I'd go into, he was sitting in a jail cell waiting to be released on good behaviour. I can only try to imagine what it is like to have lost all those years.

Our lives ran parallel once. Where did it all go wrong?


I don't know how I'll react if we meet in the lift again.

Fortune's Fools

In a rather macabre display of irony, I flipped my Onion Day-To-Day Calendar to read this:


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

Victims Sought In Next Week's Shooting

CHARLOTTE, NC—In an extremely brief press conference on the steps of City Hall, area psychopath Roland Walling, 46, announced Monday that he is on the lookout for potential victims in the unprovoked shootout that he expects will leave at least three dead and up to 10 wounded next Tuesday.

"I'm asking for the community's help in piecing together the details of Tuesday's pointless, bloody attack," Walling said. "There's no clear motivation for my horrendous act, so I'm having a good deal of difficulty developing a coherent plan of action."

While many details of the grisly shooting are still unknown, Walling said he will most likely walk into the post office on Tryon Street shortly after noon, draw a 9 mm semiautomatic handgun from beneath his jacket, and begin shooting at random.

"Right now, the community's involvement is essential," Walling said. "I have no solid leads for potential victims, so please contact me immediately if you can be a target for my insane outburst of rage, or if you know someone who might be willing to be shot."

Added Walling: "I repeat—anyone who can be in the vicinity of the Tryon Street post office between 12:15 and 12:18, please come forward."

Walling urged victims to call him at 659-4066, visit him at his dilapidated mobile home in Sugar Hill Park, or "just swing by the post office Tuesday." He added that volunteers who wish to remain anonymous should remove all identification from their pockets and destroy their dental records before approaching the scene of the forthcoming crime.

Homicide detective Ryan Fowles of the Charlotte Police Department expects to be the first at the scene.

"It sounds like it will be like nothing I'll have ever seen in my 20 years in law enforcement," Fowles said. "It's going to be hard on all of us, largely because there will be no good reason why this will have had to have happened."

In spite of the inevitable confusion that will attend this sort of unimaginable tragedy, emergency response teams say they will do everything they can when the time comes.

"Next week's tragedy will no doubt remind me why I took this job," said Memorial Hospital EMT Kim Paulkins. "There will be no way we could have been prepared for it, but the important thing is that we all act professionally and do our jobs when the unthinkable happens. I'll just wish that, if someone has to die, I could have done something to have saved him or her. I'll just have to tell myself next week that I did everything I could."

Fowles said the families of those involved will be notified as soon as the victims are shot. Nonetheless, many potential victims have been reluctant to step forward and help the gunman.

"I'm sorry, but there's no way I'm getting involved in this upcoming shootout," said Mindy Grant, who lives next door to the post office. "That crazy man will just have to find someone else to kill. No, thank you. I know better."

Beth Kammerman, who has worked at the Tryon Street post office for 11 years, will leave a husband and two daughters behind if she is hit by one of Walling's bullets.

"I'm sure I won't be able to believe the things I see," Kammerman said. "I'll have to ask myself, 'Why did God allow this to happen?' Especially if there's children, who won't have done nothing to nobody."

Sidney Crawson said next week's shooting is exactly the kind of thing she has warned her fellow residents about.

"Everyone will say, 'It was so sudden, it came out of nowhere,'" Crawson said. "The authorities should be able to see this coming, if you ask me. I'll have some hard questions to ask people next week, believe me. I just hope I'm lucky enough to be alive to say this after the fact."

Contacted at his home, Walling said he expects to be wounded by a shot fired by either a gun-carrying postal employee or an off-duty cop, but he believes he will manage to escape from the scene of the crime in a late-model Honda.

© Copyright 2007, Onion, Inc. All rights reserved.

The Onion is not intended for readers under 18 years of age.
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So maybe, sometimes the Onion isn't that funny after all.

I just kept wondering as I read the reports today, why nobody jumped on the gunman when he was reloading?


Yeah big talk Jess, you'll probably be screaming so loud he'll shoot you first to shut you up.

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Walked over to Plaza Sing to indulge in some ayam panggang from that ridiculously popular Indonesian BBQ stall. Such a foolproof formula - grilled/fried stuff with good gravy.

And then there was some Carrefour clearance sale which got me slightly excited because nothing beats cheap retail therapy.

Amidst the books and household products, I walked past three guys in office attire carefully inspecting toy action figures. It made me smile slightly, how sometimes we just don't grow up. I admit I felt slight disdain, and was contemplating how unnecessary negative feelings were in this context when I strolled past the girls' toy section and was forced to stop to look at a careless display of My Little Pony figurines.

I talked myself out of buying one, and maybe I shouldn't have, just to teach me a lesson for snickering at people that were same as me. I can't remember where my old ones went to, nor can I remember the last time I saw them or I watched the cartoon. No matter, it was just so pretty. But I've enough clutter to deal with already.

And then as I reached my block, I could hear the shouts even with my earphones plugged in. A Malay couple arguing, well the guy was doing most of the shouting anyway. The girl started to walk quickly away only to have her arm grabbed by the guy and was forcefully swung back to her starting position.

Some old man on a bicycle was a few meters away watching the entire scene. I immediately labelled him as one of those voyeuristic kaypohs and I tried my best to turn my back on the scandal to walk home.

Then the shoutings escalated, and the guy smashed his handphone on the ground, all the while gesticulating violently at the girl. There was some vague recollection of how D similarly smashed his crash cymbal in some random carpark and I shuddered. Cymbals make more noise than handphones. The old man didn't move.

And as the shoutings continued, the guy moved to stand in front of the girl, towering over her. At this point, the old man got off his bicycle and went to intervene, keeping his body between the two lovers. The girl kept her head down, shrunk into as small a ball as she could muster and hid behind the old man as her boyfriend continued to yell. I can't understand Malay so I can't tell you what was said.

And it amazed me, how I mistook concern for voyeurism, how I mistook abuse for a couple's private business, how I mistook my apathy for civilised politeness.




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(I saw this off The Dudes' blog and I think this is the most awesome thing to come out of Talking Cock EVER.)



I took me a while to get it, but when I finally did, I reallly really really got it man.


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I keep coming back to add on as I remember stuff I wanted to note down.

Masochist hour has begun. Bring on the coffee and the 80s music that will make me last the night!


I've had several nightmare about the deaths of my cats. Usually involving them leaping to their deaths, a reflection of my paranoia since we live on the 9th floor.

I had another a few days ago, by far the worst but I've forgotten most of it, so yay for you. Someone once said, "Is there anything more boring than listening to someone else recount their dreams?" Probably not, although some life stories comes pretty close.

Anyway, I dreamt I was in an India-esque train station. Terrible crowds. Waiting for the train with my cats on board to pull in. They were supposed to be caged, but someone (I think my Dad) let them out thinking it'd be fine since they were in an enclosed space.

When the train came to a stop, someone went to clear out the garbage.

This is where it gets all fuzzy. All I can remember is that someone grabbing my cats one after another, smashing their heads in and flinging them two storeys down.

I'd seen someone do the same to rats once, and while I felt pretty horrible then this one really sent me over the edge.

So there was a lot of yelling and screaming and I beat up someone who I felt was responsible, can't remember who.

Ran to their limp bodies. Picked them up and put them in a tray of sorts and ran to an animal hospital. A lot of pitiful mewing and me worrying I was breaking more bones by moving them.

On hindsight, its a bit strange they weren't dead already.

I think my alarm clock deprived me of an ending to this one.

Procrastinating.

Taking a midday break (is it just me or is the fucking weather fucking annoying) and I surfed on over to the Miss Singapore Universe 2007 site to take a look at our bevy of beauties. Even my mom, who has a PhD in SeeingTheBestOfPeople couldn't help but wrinkle up her face in horror when she watched them on TV.

It was funny, that Miss Christabel 'We Are Blessed to Bless' Campbell said she wanted to be a journalist to, "report on the kind of news that interests me most". Yeah, you, and every journalism-inclined person I know.

And if I have to listen to Peggy Chang tell us how we should "Leave as if you'll die today" I really just might.



My colleague said that procrastination is a manifestation of insecurity. I think he's so smart its irritating.

这个是好的 lor

That's the catchphrase going around in office. I find uttering it gives me a strange sense of comfort. Compensation for my lack of Chinese roots? Whatever.

Bike Lesson Number Four Update:

Today's session proved particularly frustrating. How am I expected to demonstrate my ability to switch gears when I've to stop for stupid cars every 10 meters or so? I feel beginnings of road rage.

On the way back, I struck up a conversation with a dude that had helped me during an embarrassing moment on the circuit when my bike stalled.

I've no way of knowing if he was being genuine or being a bastard like those you see in the movies when the cute quarterback asks out the school's misfit just so he and his frat brothers can laugh at her. So I sidestepped the high-school-esque requests for MSN and handphone numbers, all the while contemplating how stupidly ironic I was getting attention when I felt extremely unkempt with my greasy hair sans makeup. And then he guessed that I was probably 18 or 19, and it became quite clear that he has poorly developed visual perception.





I've been addicted to I CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER? after being introduced to it on Rich's Fourfour. If you aren't already reading Fourfour, I've got nothing to say to you. Because seriously, 那个是好的lor.

Ok indulge me as I relay this little tale of how I indulged in the sin of ultimate girlishness by squealing and running down stairs to try and catch up with Alina (see photo of beautiful girl below) when I realised she had stopped by for casting not knowing it was my office.

I am so fond of those girls. I like them because they are nice. And sincere. And just generally very pleasant human beings to be around.


Of course, if I were to be perfectly, painfully, bluntly honest with myself, I like them because they like me - and that's the shallow and highly pleasurable feeling of illusory self-validation you get when a couple of beautiful women treat you as an equal. Are these bastions of glamour not ashamed to be seen walking down the street with someone who obviously missed out on Fashion 101? Surely I must be doing something right!




Ministerial pay hikes. Discussed to death and I still have no opinion on it, other than obvious emotional responses. But I calculated: It'll cost Singapore's 4.4 million people S$0.70 cents each a year to pay our Prime Minister.

Long weekends never go as planned. Generally there's a lot more sleeping and slacking than desired. My body's capacity for sleep sometimes surprises even myself. Figure this - Waking at noon, lunch, falling asleep at two and then waking up at six. Repeat.

It was a fairly domestic weekend. The parents are off for Qing Ming in Malaysia, and there were cats to be fed and laundry to be done. Previous long weekends typically involved a lot more exploitation of time which means staying out late and drinking a lot. But with hungry cats waiting at home, there was no such desire or opportunity to do so anymore.

And I do enjoy this routine. I figure if I become jobless I'd probably revel in such domesticity.

Had another bike lesson though, which went much better than the first. I didn't fall down or buckle under the weight of the bike (which I routinely see happen to other girls present) although there were a number of close shaves. I will not give men that satisfaction.

But the driving centre is an interesting place and a world of its own. Unlike the rest of yellow-boxed Singapore, people lit up almost everywhere except inside the building itself. It felt as if I was in another country. The instructors too, had an unusally wry sense of humour. They were very patient and seemed genuinely helpful. You'd figure dealing with young punks all day would make them crabby.

But I did get onto the outer circuit and went all the way up to fourth gear. And yes, it felt just wonderful.



Back to work tomorrow. I guess there are only some routines I enjoy.