Bye Bye Blogspot, or Out, damn spot! Out!

Because I am so atas, I've bought my own domain and moved there:

http://www.geebrain.net/

Fw: Amy Winehouse is still alive, ruining things

From BlahGirls.com

From: admin

Sent: Friday, September 26, 2008 5:50 AM

Subject: Amy Winehouse is still alive, ruining things

photo: (wwtdd)

Harvey Nichols, what were you thinking? The famous department store lent designer dresses to Wino to wear and return. Except that when they were returned, they were covered in vomit and green mold. Why are people vomiting on Amy? That's not nice.

Fw: Amy Winehouse and other celebrities who are 25 years old.

From BlahGirls.com...

From: admin

Sent: Wednesday, September 24, 2008 8:51 AM

Subject: Amy Winehouse and other celebrities who are 25 years old.

Emily: (WENN) / Lacey: (Retna) / Elisha: (WENN) Carrie: (Juan Rico/ Fame Pictures) / Amy: (WWTDD) / Mila: (WENN) Amber: (WENN) / Anne: (WWTDD) / Spencer: (AP Photo)

One of these people does not look like the other. We have to save Amy!

Fw: Amy Winehouse lives another day, but loses a ballet slipper in the process

From BlahGirls.com

From: admin

Sent: Tuesday, September 30, 2008 7:10 PM

Subject: Amy Winehouse lives another day, but loses a ballet slipper in the process

photo: (wenn)

Dear Amy,
I know you probably aren't looking for me and doubt you even realized I left. But after weeks of being on your foot, it just got to be too much. The late nights, the partying, the waking up in strange new locations every day. I just can't support that kind of free spirited lifestyle anymore. I remember the days when we use to walk in the park together and you occasionally got a pedicure. But I can no longer be a ballet slipper on a foot that has become so un-nimble. I will always miss your unpredictable nature.
Love always,
Your other shoe

Superficialities

If it is possible to have attraction without love, is love without attraction a possibility or just an excuse cooked up by (and for) ugly, talentless people?

Hivemind Says...

... is the revolutionary next-generation adolescents' game that is bound to replace mainstream industry giant Simon Says.

Freudian Slip

My French teacher was pointing out that I had a very small dictionary when he stuttered on the first syllable of a particularly sensitive word.

The Old ''If A Tree Fell In The Forest...'' Question

If I posted on a blog and nobody read it, has the post really been posted?

Self-Negating Prophecy

Just walked past this door with a sign that says ''Door May Open Without Warning''

Do Souls Sleep?

Somebody should make beds designed as train or bus cubicles, but more comfortable. It'll be a hit with insomniacs.

Non Sequitur

'boring' without an 'r' makes 'boing'. That's interesting - which is the opposite of boring.

The geek shall inherit the earth.

Schadenfreude is the sense of relief when you find there're others as screwed up as you.

I've this strange habit of deleting spam from my inbox so that the number of unread mail stays at 1666.

C'est la vie.

How To Save A Life

Fray (adj) ; Fray Moments (n) ; as in Tres Fray (Very Fray) Situation : Preventable single events which result in lifelong regrets.

In movies or cartoons, whenever a key to a very secret or dangerous place is sealed in a very secure and indisputably inaccessible location signboarded with "DANGER", "KEEP OUT" and "NOBODY WHO VALUES HIS LIFE GOES THERE", we know for a fact that, in a following scene, the protagonist will undoubtedly break every seal and barrier - probably the very instruments he meticulously planted in the first place - to get at what he hoped would never see the light of day again. 

Welcome back to Earth, dear Blog. I wouldn't go so far as to say that you have been sorely missed, but in times of duress, you do come in handy. Now wipe that smirk off your digital face.

There're many things we keep chained and tethered, often for our own safety, sanity and sanctity, and that of others. As often, we are merely overcompensating for our paranoia. Paradoxically, suppression can only amplify what we choose to hide. The word "pent" comes from "pen", an enclosure for the keeping of livestock, sometimes used as the jargon for a submarine dock. Yet we almost never use it in its true unadulterated meaning. Consider "pent up". Literally, it simply refers to the act of keeping any object or animal in a pen - but mention the phrase and "pent up frustration", "pent up emotions", "pent up rage" are the first idioms to spill out (pardon the pun). I'd venture to suggest that the act of penting already predisposes a future inclination for release.

Like hearts, seafaring vessels and farmhouse animals (okay, I'm pushing it with this one), blogs are made to be penned. not pent. Pity I only realise it now. 

I hope you're still reading.

The Tooth Fairy Dies Every Time You Stop Believing

How did it feel when, as a child only briefly acquainted with the wonders of this world, with a hitherto insatiably voracious appetite for more, you were suddenly made privvy, as with the twenty billion other slouched primates struggling with the back-breaking curse called life, to some certain disappointment - perhaps the discovery that Santa is myth or that flight is the reserved realm of ornithology, and then again only some fowls - then shrugged casually off with the grim platitude of ''oh well, that's life'' by some other body who can't (or have lost the ability to, at the hands of another like she) comprehend the magnitude of distress this causes a neophyte to the world?

Cliffhung

Imagine reading a thriller, when suddenly at page 352 you find the glossy back cover, and the story unfinished. The author is dead, retired or too rich to care. You burn with curiosity, and you'd foster your firstborn out to a cannibalistic African tribe to glimpse page 353. What, then?

You write angry letters to said writer; pleading letters; letters whose genres you never knew existed and never found a name for but wrote anyway. You call the writer, but of course she wouldn't answer, for you're just one of a million readers and so what does she care if you're that one who can't live without the resolution that only she can offer - can she, really? Or is she, too, at a cul de sac? All that, for a resolution - and mind you, nobody did promise a happily ever after.

All else fail, your efforts are for nought, the longing grows to gargantuan proportions and consumes your every shred of being until you Are the unfinished story waiting for its denouement...

Now then, what do you do with the flotsam?

God Forbid, Up For Bids: The Quintessential Quaint

You are bidding on item 777666. Healthy male specimen, age 19, slight cerebral defect. History of near-death experiences (to users). Otherwise in near-mint condition. Limited edition (1 of only 5 ever made!) humanoid will fulfil your every unnecessary need and more (or less)! Translates Arabic, French and Russian with a guaranteed 1% accuracy... on a good day.BONUS - translates Mandarin to Greek unaided! Makes authentically guttaral sounds when provoked! (press 'Try Me' button for demonstration) Listen to him sing, chatter and quote classics (badly) in the same endearing growl. Show him off to your friends and amaze them with his (inexistent) wit, then lose them all. Comes with four interchangeable gangly limbs. Swap legs for arms and vice versa - you won't be able to tell the difference from the way he dances. Bid now! You will never leave home without him again!

Your mileage may vary. Product has been known to sloth and idle for days on end. Troubleshoot with copious amounts of either gourmet chocolate, cheese or Female (each sold seperately).

Keep away from children aged 10 and below due to choking hazards. He will choke them.

Other products by same seller:

Form-Fitting Girl Friend - dress up your pet with this one-size-fits-all arm attachment! Place in close proximity and watch him drool and fumble helplessly! Warning: Girl attachment disappears after a maximum of 3 days.

Insta-Get-A-Life Kit - be dazzled as your pet suddenly comes to life with this unlimited credit card charged to none other than your personal account! Vices, friends and ticket to hell sold seperately.

Current Bid: $0.00

Scratch That

Hello,

I'm blogging at 2.30am on a workday because I'm covered with (GASP) rashes all over. Yes, I am diseased, infected, impure. Please just stone me to death. They're lumpy, itchy and red all over. Okay, using "they" is just an attempt at alienating the condition when it's actually "Me". I'm lumpy, itchy and red all over, and even my eyes are swollen with lumps. What's worse is that the swelling will all go down tomorrow and I won't be able to manage an MC despite being tortured overnight. Allergies are like lawyers that way.

First thing anyone says in response to knowledge of my rash-infested body is "Don't scratch them.". Yeah sure, that command comes easy when you're not covered in burning boils that fidget like recruits moving in file. 

It's not the first time, anyway, so I'm not panicking. That doesn't make it less irksome or disconcerting and distracting either. I feel like a walking plague, 
except I can't even fulfil my plaguish purpose in life because allergies aren't contagious. 
Dammit where's the fun in it if I can't infect the population of the world with this dread 
virus? No wait, it ain't even a virus - it's just some lousy genes that I'm supposed (according to 
the doc, who can't do anything about it) to grow out of. The only *Slight* comfort is that sis had 
it when she was young and so that proves we're siblings and I'm not adopted. Hooray!

Anyway, about adoption. Sometimes I wish I were really adopted, so that the parental authorities would actually attempt to treat me like I were their own. Being not-adopted, there's no pressing need for them not to treat me like I am. Convoluted argument but pretty savvy, I must say.

I'm really just blogging to take my mind off the rash. Makes sense that if I'm not thinking of them, they're not thinking of me either and so won't put so much effort into making my life a torment right? I don't know. I'm just following what it says on the Guide To Dealing With Bullies. Which is what rashes really are, right? Right.

If only. Anyway (I seem to abuse that word),

Sometimes it is so hard to forget, I wonder if our necks were made just so we can turn and look back while going forward.
Maybe we're just not designed to forget. After all, the ability to whinge and moan is pretty much
the domain of our Great Race, so why not bask in it? Okay, I'm just bitter because I can't get over this one thing, and that I'm getting this recurring rash (Yes, it happens every few months. Now do you Still want to be me?). But hey, so what? Longing and suffering is part of being alive, so yeah, maybe it's good that I am.

That just reminds me of that time during Patrol Field Camp when I earned my Observation Report (for those uneducated in army lingo, it's not a good thing) for saying "Hey, maybe it's not such a bad thing that they're late."

There is thrill in the new, comfort in regularity and nostalgia in the old.

Back to scratching...

An Unpalatable Tale

Her vanity would only allow the untimely tearing of the burdensome child from the solace of her womb. She would not tolerate the burden one moment and like a well-sharpened bread knife sliced the helpless offspring off her immaculate trappings, leaving it to suffer in solitude the cruel brunt of the world. Thus was I, by the cut of a butcher’s cleaver, prematurely conceived, my visage a scabbed wound that mirrored Mother’s own.

All my life I’ve lived a mere shadow of Mother. She was an elegant sculpture – the very essence of womanhood bringing nourishment and solace to each table she graced. It was clear as early as birth that I was made lesser ; had far less substance. Yet I lived only to be her and, granted, for all my efforts achieved a measure of success. Chip off the old block, they called me.

At the onset, I was weak and disoriented, and could do no more than lie prostrate in anticipation of whatever doom or fate should befall me. In hopelessness I glimpsed hope, and in my still-delirious state could only dismiss it as wishful hallucination - careful not to grasp at imagined water in a tundra. Nearer and nearer it grew, until it stared me in the eye and, I was certain, could no longer be an illusion.

I willed it towards me, embracing the cool steely touch of blunted knife mixed with the vibrantly pulsating butter of life. Pain confirmed my existence, and with existence came lustre. My pallor was replaced with vibrant saffron ; the old wound concealed and forgotten beneath this newfound brilliance.

Finally each crumb of my artificially browned physique was tantalizingly slicked yellow. I had identity ; I was no longer the generic square mass cut from Mother. I was buttered bread.





Loafsome
~ An Unpalatable Tale





Pretend you are a piece of toast being buttered. Write it from the toast’s point of view.

My 2007

Mostly it was grime laden and barbarous and spent in the primitive comfort of never-before-known-to-exist-and-which-existence-still-remains-restricted-information-that-I-will-have-to-kill-you-for-knowing jungles and the oh-so-luxurious army barracks. I’ve had a few trounces with supernatural beings (ask me, I’ll tell), military commanders (mostly, their lack of basic intelligence and linguistic cogence) and S*F bureaucracy – arranged in ascending order of how much of a nuisance they are. After an incubatory 18 years spent in sanity and intellectual comfort, I’m akin to one of those unnamed (ok, really, our adolescent minds were more concerned with Velociraptor, Tyrannosaurus Rex and Vivacious Raptor to remember the human names) paleontologists walking into Jurassic Park, except armed with sleep deficiency and most importantly, the phenomenon that can only be described as “the assumption that one knows much about a particular topic without first-hand experience, either from imparted knowledge or nightmares but far falling short of authenticity and verity” or just Rude Shock.

I was thrust on an uncanny replica of Robinson Crusoe’s island whose natives spoke only a frugal, guttural version of the language we call English, then allocated a rusty rifle and ordered to Defend Our Beloved Motherland From Phantom Invaders. Accidentally I displayed a semblance of independent thought and an amazingly immaculate use of grammar, and they deemed me worthy of elevation to a position of minor leadership. Unfortunately, that meant nine more months in a grimier and infinitely more barbaric environment, and I was wise to emulate the traditional stage actors – break a leg and let the curtains fall.

Now, nine months after enlistment, I am safely ensconced in the cold, steely embrace of military bureaucracy and red-tape, performing the daily chore of scribing reports addressed and condemned to the bank of incessant lexicon that abound in our glorious army. It’s ironic how we in the line of national defence of freedom and democracy are denied the very values -Oops! Where did self-censorship go? Now now, I don’t want to be charged for the heinous crimes of Speaking the Truth or Freedom of Expression so I’d better stop here, now.

Dave The Clerk

Dave's this dude at work who has handicapped parents. He tells me that if I want to be posted to a camp near my home, I ought to kill my siblings and severely cripple both my parents. Really, I have considered committing just that, even without the added incentive of a convenient workplace.

The Chief Clerk

I don't know how she stands it ; having the men in her life leave and come. I guess it's part of the job. But she is her job. She is the chief clerk. She calls them her "sons" but I imagine a time when she mightn't be old enough to, so what're those men? the chief clerk's "what"? It's a pretty frightening thought.

I guess we all have our ways of dealing with whatever hand life has dealt to us, and this must be hers. Perhaps it helps numb her pain those nights when she stays up late, whiskey in hand, and dismisses them as "children" who must leave. I guess it all makes sense, if it helps her sleep.

There's this other dude at work, Rockey, he's always on the phone. He wants to save animals, so it probably doesn't matter that he wants everyone dead... especially the chief clerk.

Personae Morbid

I’m leaving. This tiresome world holds nothing for me… I’ve tried! – honestly I have! – but all I find is emptiness and a hollow existence. I marvel at how you can laugh and revel regardless – but to each his (or her) own; who am I to judge? You will find one day, and I hope that day never comes for you, friend, that we live in a hole devoid of purpose and meaning. All is illusion and anything that makes you think otherwise is delusion. The unknown on the other side will be preferable to the tormented life I am putting up with for these final minutes.

You will probably never venture to read this, except if ever chance made you stumble upon it. I’m sorry we didn’t work out. It’s not your fault I’m just so ineffectual and impassive, so I understand if you will never like to see me again. I grant you that wish now. Have a good one.

I am ashamed to have to reveal such a point of weakness in a man to you who is my best friend. I can only hope for this to not affect your perspective on life too drastically, though knowing you, it can’t be avoided that the shadow cast by my demise will cause you to ponder on the ennui of it all. I can only say, in my defense, that there are reasons – some of which you are acquainted with – for my current actions. So please, forgive and fault me not in this decision, and never stray from this path that you have taken and never reflect on my ill rationalizations. Live the life I never managed to.

It’s been a while since our last little reunion, and I still reel from the changes I see in you. We are alike in so many ways that I would venture to suggest, if I should dare, that we lead mirror lives from a thousand miles away. For that, I fervently pray that you will never have to face this crevasse that I look upon now. Life has dealt me a bad hand. It is a maze and there’re bound to be us who run headlong into a cul-de-sac. I am too far lost now.

Disclaimer:
The above is an elementary practise in writing a death note, the verity of which I will not reveal, but you can guess - because I am still alive and kicking. I've never tried putting myself in the shoes of someone on the brink of death, and it fascinates me to be so unrestricted and uncensored, even if it is for a brief moment before the candle is snuffed. It's not a masterpiece, and there're many things I need to figure out. There seems to be a gap between being utterly jaded with life and contemplating suicide which remains to be deciphered.

And erm, for all those who care, I'm really not suicidal, yet.

Bored to death, anyone?

On Caprice, Chickens and Eggs

''She wouldn't allow you to do anything for her, but it was a real pleasure, if you see what we mean, to refuse.'' ~ Samuel Beckett

Today I am going to talk about caprice - no, wait, I've just had a change of mind.

Which came first - the egg or the chicken? Recently, scientists are increasing of the opinion that really, a chicken is merely an egg's way of making another egg. Id est, the egg grew legs so nobody could step on them. I guess we, too, are the pawns in some universal embryonic conspiracy. So why did the chicken - or should I now call it the two-legged egg - cross the road? Maybe the brainiacs ought to look into that now.

Waiting For Godot

"They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more."

I've had time to revisit my yellowed (actually, if you knew me back yonder, you'd know i used yellow paper for all my work, but it is just an expression) lit s notes on Godot. Those were pretty bleak times.

Imagine yourself tasked with deciphering gibberish, only that you know for sure that they're really genius gibberish, and that if you don't get it you're probably not so genius as you'd like to think - maybe you'd like to drop out of this two-person lit s class, perhaps? Or maybe settle for the thick volume of cloying 18th century lexicon you see your only course mate poring over and which you laughed at, because your texts were a tenth the length of hers. And then the plebeians ask "What are you reading?" (sometimes “What the f- are you reading?”) and you show it to them and of course, they'd be better off reading it upside down for all their futile efforts in comprehending it. Then you finally at the tenth reading feel like you just had a tête-à-tête with Mr. Beckett and you proclaim to the world “There is no purpose in life.” – pointing, at the same time, to the holy scripture with Beckett’s face in the front of it. You'd lapse into depression - because you know ; and Beckett knows, but nobody else does - so you look to your whoa-so-jaded-with-life lit s mentor who smiles and nicely informs you that "Well, there are students - in the States, mostly - who shoot themselves after studying such a genre of texts for seeing the hopelessness in life.". Now you’re gloomy, (more) cynical and utterly intrigued by the author and you want to be him. You’d look like a fool dragging your foot to that eventual sweet grave where you’ll find nothing that the churches, temples, mosques promised – but you already knew - , but at least you’re not a clown traipsing along in life anymore, whose breath will end akin to the careless pedestrian we see in Mr. Bean (fyi, Roland Atkinson suffers from depression, too) who walks into a manhole. Or would that be better?

I don't know, but I'm happy I got a distinction for it in the end.

On The American Subprime Credit Squeeze, Rome and Egypt, Asian Nerds and Computer Games.

There has been a great deal of commotion about the current economic pseudo-collapse caused by incessant borrowing and unrealistic loans over at That Country. One thing, or Moral-of-the-Story if you prefer, taught to us is the simple fact that really, you have to pay your dues one day. There was an article in The Economist which ran contrary to the general opinion that deems the blame to be on conniving loan providers and securities traders looking for a quick buck. Rather, it invites us to examine the culture of extravagant living and decadence as the root of this plague of defaulters; and that the defaulter is the plague, not the lender (nor the money, though many would conveniently like to believe).

Candidly, it brought to mind Rome and Egypt in the age of Marcus Antonius and Cleopatra. Cleopatra (and Egypt) was the personification of indulgence and all sensuous pursuits, juxtaposed at the time with the pragmatic Roman creed and stoicism. When she died, so too did the ideals (or anti-ideals) she and the rest of Egypt stood for and we have been Romans since, balking at indulgence as hedonism and branding extravagance as squander. We wouldn’t be such prudes now if the Egyptians had won. Then again, the Romans wouldn’t have won had they not such prudence.

Where do Asian nerds come into the picture? Chew on this - As if it isn’t already shameful enough to be stereotyped prudes, we now face the harsh truth that said race whom fashioned this perception really originated from The-Most-Prosaic-Civilization-In-History. Even they find us boring.

But cut the Asian nerd some slack, will ya? After all, our squinty-eyed antecedents have beaten back Mongolians, Huns and mythical beasts for thousands of years – if an eldest son in medieval China must prove his worth by slaying a hundred Huns or fire-breathing Crocophant, how is a scrawny Chinese dude to live up to such grand primogenital expectations now? Much like our eyes, thus were our lives repressed. Then the advent of computer games came to emancipate the millions of pimple-plagued and bespectacled Chinese teens. Their pathological desires of dragon-slaying were never sated by such actions at the boardrooms, counterfeit goods market or takeaway hawkers (though we do see them often enough to think these their birthright) – too docile compared to the thrill of, say, dismembering, pixel by pixel, your angmoh friend’s green-skinned Hun-look-alike. It is in our blood.

I can’t imagine I just typed the previous paragraph. It must have been the screaming Chinese persona hollering from some locked-away depth in my genes, soul (no wait, I don't have one) or id. Forget the dragons ; we were better off with the Michael Jackson Syndrome. We’re living in Rome, so live as the Romans and do something constructive today that will make you a lot of money and maybe take over the world, or at least hopefully something not involving the wanton destruction of pixilated make-believe beings.

However, if you can’t even write a completely disjointed and time-wasting essay on the American subprime credit squeeze, Rome and Egypt, Asian nerds and computer games, you probably should stick with your Level 99 Barbarian.

Private Ng's Inaugural Address to the Nation

Dearest people,

It is my utmost honour to announce this day the most jocund news of yours truly's demise from the ranks of officerhood-to-be. I cite verbatim from the authorities the following reasons offered

1) Cadet Ng was too lame to be an officer. He broke his shin.
2) Cadet Ng couldn't quite kick it. He broke his shin.
3) Cadet Ng seemed to want to learn driving more than becoming an officer, so we let him. Also, he broke his shin.
4) Cadet Ng sometimes uses words too aureate for our plebeian ears. We cannot tolerate such hifalutin behaviour. Besides, he broke his shin.
5) We have other plans for Cadet Ng, now that he has broken his shin.

I must say, it was truly bittersweet in a rotten sort of way. Like the taste of cheap chocolate the kind of which you don't know if the sourness is part of the palate or if it came from mold. There're obvious perks, of course. I can now...

1) Learn driving.
2) Learn a new language, or rather, learn an old new language since I put Arabic on hold after going through basics before *shudder* army assimilation.
3) Have time to annoy the heck out of these people claiming to be my friends, who lamented the lack of time to catch up when I was stuck in camp 6 days a week.
4) Start on an ACCA.
5) Study for the SATs, if only because I have learnt I am disallowed from writing in English for an Americanish exam.
5) Learn how not to write in point form.

I don't relish the congratulatory tones I've been receiving these days. Sure pride comes from within, not on the shoulders, but there's nothing to be proud of in prematurely culminating any endeavour that one sets on. Sure there're the perks of free time and opportunities to leave hell more often, but those were the exact rights we forsook already on Day One, when priorities were set.

I think there've been some confusion between happiness and enjoyment. It is possible to be unhappy in an enjoyable situation.

24 hours

It seems one can never get used to hell after all. Every bookout presents that same old cruel dilemma of ''what would you do if you have only 24 hours left to live?''. Sure, it makes one relish so much more all that he does in that 24 hours ; at the same time, that day is but a meagre shadow of what normality and mundanehood one used to have. It is a pitiful reminder ; a caricature that tempts the palate and never satisfies it.

Give me more time please.

happy birthday to me

Worst fucking birthday ever.

It's 5am now and I'm gonna spend the first day of being 19 in the jungles.

Honestly, am sick of being lost after 19 years. Maybe it's my biological clock ticking but somewhere along the way don't we all just yearn for something more defined and less intermittent, less spontaneous?

Sorry, emo day.

Muse

It's quaint how the sleep-deprived and overworked mind seems least muddled, yet when you wake up in your stumbling grogginess it's never more clear that what seemed like an epiphany was and is just a figment of the blunt and fumbling primitivity that inundates the fatigued cerebral. Maybe, though, it is exactly when we are at that moment, stripped of all sensibilities, that we are most truly astute.

The Long Long Belated

I realize I haven't updated for a while, so here I am - because, you know, when you haven't done certain things for a while, you tend to forget why you stop doing them, and subsequently proceed to start committing them all over again.

I swear to all that I hold faith in that forever I shall abstain from the mention of Army-related content in conversation, unless requested to or stumbling upon one already ongoing, and even then, only with great reluctance. Because Army has sucked enough of my life without my bitching and whining about it. Besides, it's Not Allowed.

Realize now, though, that said update, being subject to this new criterion, can hardly be longer than one paragraph without either the inclusion of subject matters too personal to be of unscandalous general scrutiny or too cryptic to be of general interest. Who gives a fuck for the crowd's censure?

What makes a blog entry, anyway? Should I conform to the plebeian brand of pseudo-diary/itinerary style and bore my readers to death, or approach the themes with insights and revelations too intriguing to pass off as personal? I could right now scribe a whole post without reference to any real event and call this a blog, but only over my dead body.

It's just so obnoxiously me to have to self-internalize and self-rationalize everything I do.

Anyway, recently (since last night with Alyssa and Daryl) had this new craving for what we now call ''ghetto-drinking''. Ghetto-drinking, put simply, is the act of procuring from an obscure (read : 7-Eleven) source a relatively cheap-ass bottle of alcohol and flagons of Big Gulp before plopping down next to the river and engaging in alcohol-inundated and very-much-uncensored talk till either a) one party loses consciousness or b) the fountain of life and everything nice runs out and we are forced to adjourn. Beats clubbing hands down.

Have also taken to other haute, quaint and not-so-haute-or-quaint hobbies/pursuits such as collecting PEZ dispensers, late-night/early morning deathcabbing cum tete-a-tete with Dwayne, Game Theorizing everything and going out with somebody who isn't as fond of me as much as I am fond of said somebody and I would like said somebody to, and in all that I now disclaim and proclaim no mention hereunder of amorous designs but, at the same time, no dismissal either of such claims because I am such a prideful, insecure and incessantly cryptic jerk. Anyway am not too sure if not-sleeping can be counted as an activity to note, since it's really not an action but a lack of inaction which counts as an inaction.

Oh and a digression about being obnoxious - I am taking much pleasure in nobody understanding this post.

So here it is, here I am ; pretty alive but not living pretty.

Cadets are not allowed to blog about the SAF.

Today's word of the day - Bookinertia (bou-k-inn-erh-sheer) : the forlorn-ness and destitution one gets immediately before, right upon or just after booking into camp, caused by an unwillingness to re-immerse oneself into camp life. It is characterized by a sharp downturn of the shape of the lips, forming a :-( instead of a :-), dreary moods and possible hysteria in severe cases. Bookinertia currently has no cure.

CDS duty today and met Dev who's on guard duty. He gave me a pineapple tart. Three weeks in this strange new place. It's good to see the occasional familiar faces like dev, khairi, ben, yuen loong and other various similarly mistreated cadets. We are all we have.

There's social night coming up, and I need a (currently-nonexistent-and-not-about-to-magically-materialize) date. I know I should try my best to OOC before the day comes, 'cos the shame will probably kill me anyhows. Better start getting a life outside of NS.

It's when you book out for one meagre day after three weeks of confinement that you begin to treasure your possessions. By that I mean not only your own bed and laptop installed with Warcraft III but also your freedom, friends and ( non-sequitur, I know) personality.

I feel like I haven't been myself for a while. It's hard to explain, and words fail me for once (nah I'm just lazy to pen it down).

Four more days to bookout. There's something I've been wanting to do for a very long time but haven't had the time, courage or opportunity to.

Occified

Here are just a few of the responses by various acquaintances upon hearing of my posting.

Dwayne : "O.O oMg."

RuiWen : "Who's OCS? You?"

Sis #1 : "Hahaha!"

Benny (the NJ one) : "Oh my god! You in ocs! I shudder for the future of ns..."

Kevin : "Haha zomg are you serious?"

Walter (very unsubtly) : "How the heck you get into OCS?"

Darren (this is his immediate response, I kid you not) : "F*ck you."

Jeff Angus : "OMGGGGGGGGG.........."

Sis #3 (in usual Ng-family affection) : "Chey no meaning to me"

and the award for most anomalous response goes to...

Brandon (before I even tell him anything) : "Wait. Let me guess. OCS. Confirm. 100 percent. *expletive* confirm."

Fine, I admit I've never been one to inspire or spur anyone on to much more than violent behaviour (usually towards self), and my love for the nation can only be summed up in the roughly 97482578 words on this blog.

Thanks bros hoes.

20062007, nice date today ; no date today

If you expect the unexpected, then the unexpected becomes the expected and the expected becomes the unexpected. The previously unexpected which is currently expected should now not be expected, as would the previously expected (and currently unexpected) become the expected. Id est, the statement means nothing and is junk.

How was the first meeting between you and your parents like?

Did you have to introduce yourself?

Wasn't it such an entrance you made?

Why does the word "entrance" also mean to put into an enraptured trance? Are we thus expected by definition to make each of our entrances spectacular?

Choler

You know how some people claim that blogging is cathartic ; that blogging is this generation's method of letting out all those pent-up frustrations. I'm holding them to their word.

So I've POP-ed. That wasn't a start, or the end. Well there's block leave, but it's merely a two-week adjournment while They decide how best to agonize us further. It is just a well-placed illusion that would have us think that 3 months of torture makes it Okay to torture us some more for another 21 months. It's not okay, and there're a million things I'd rather do in these 630 days. My life is stalled for some inane national policy that decrees that all 18 year old males be made to live an intellectually unfulfiliing, economically detrimental and socially alienated existence for two burning years.

Yes I am an angst-inundated teenager who places his own well-being above that of the nation. So what? This is hardly a country worth saving.

"Pain is temporary. Pride is forever." With close reference to the assumed definition of "pride", the treatment of army personnel, and the recompense and renumeration offered, discuss the validity of this claim.

This hasn't been a totally enjoyable block leave in the sense that I can imagine myself having more fun over 12 purposeless days BEFORE being assimilated into the army. For lack of a better explanation, I tentatively attribute it to duller wit, a handicapped or total lack of connection with the real world and permanent trauma sustained through BMT (I know, this sums up the previous two. I'm saying it so I don't exclude the other unmentioned symptoms.)

Nobody cares. Nobody gives a damn about NSmen. We are the scum of society not least because of our inaptitude or infidelity, but an unlucky genetic and geographical coincidence that made us male and Singaporean.

Tell me that there is no alternative to national defence. Tell me that our fathers, uncles, grandfathers... were all there before. None of that changes any of the unfair marginalisation and handicaps that a Singaporean male faces during and after national service. We trudge through jungles, juggle high pyrotechnics and live rounds and receive a pittance that not even the authorities responsible dare call salary.

And my point? There is no prospect to look forward to in national service and because I am made to perform this purposeless task, I have lost my own purpose.

Chicks, you owe me loads for protecting your damned country.

And yeah, I do feel better now, thanks.

POP!

Yes and time to tear this place apart.

Week, too many

I realized what a ditz I've been these past months. By the gods, that is forgiveable by death alone.

Goodbye BMT ; it was fun, for the whole of the first five minutes, not being an intellectual snob.

Week 11, Day 2.5 - Guard Duty

I am doing guard duty as I type this now at some god forsaken jungle-esque area on Pulau Tekong. Protecting you ungrateful lot from mozzies, ghastlies and wild boars.

There is no reception here for Singtel, so potential NSmen ought to take note... Choose M1.

On another not-so-interesting note, I got accepted by SMU Business. Not sure what it means though, but in the event that I do indeed stay on and leave my unspread wings wrinkled and deformed like the proverbial moth butterfly thingy, anybody wanna start taking an ACCA? Sorry. I'm a nerd at heart.

See, guard duty is cathartic. Like, what could be more revelatory than lying spread eagle in the middle of the road dressed in skeletal battle order while your buddy plays Pokemon on his Game Boy. That's the pinnacle of intellect in the army, and I'm not exaggerating.

15 minutes to Witching Hour. I'll scribe another post if something happens...

Week 10, Day 7 - On BMT

I used to dread BMT.

Before coming to Tekong, already slapped and branded with a 4-weeks extra PTP to look forward to, my mind conjured nightmarish grotesques that were the trainings to be, which then were fueled further by the rumours fed to me by predecessors who had their BMT three, twelve, twenty four or evern two hundred and forty months ago.

They are not true. Neither are they false. The truth is that the mind works in miraculous ways, and more so in BMT - that is, controverting the popular belief that mind does not work in BMT to begin with. On the surface, all is madness, cynicism and torture. Yet there is a silver lining in every cloud. Think, and everything we do is meaningful and backed with rationality. The sergeants shout at us - yes but only because we refuse to listen and learn. Training is tough and some recruits get injured, lose weight and/or lose their mind from stress - whyfor should we call ourselves trained soldiers, if not for the training? Cookhouse food is unfit for human consumption? Some restaurants and certain girlfriends could do worse.

That is not to say I enjoyed BMT. It would be too far-fetched, delusional and more than a little deranged. Spending five and a half days weekly in camp takes its toll on relationships. Friends have been neglected, contacts and projects fallen apart because of a lack of focus, and all but the most steadfast newspaper readers amongst us inevitably see none of the changes taking place around the world or even locally. I quote the SAF - "It is not what you leave behind, but what you gain in the days ahead." Reconsider this statement, and let us be reminded that some of us had lives.

Colourful lives, too, of every hue and shade, and all threaded, wove or bashed forcefully into place at BMT. Never before will I have the chance to rub shoulders with such a motley mix of characters from all walks of life. Polytechnic dropouts, O Level graduates, A Level graduates, Polytechnic graduates and even the odd few degree holders return from overseas to serve their due are recruits. "Attached", "single", "never dated before", "it's complicated" and even "married" are recruits. BMT was a menagerie of these species within our specie ; an exhibition of peoples I have never met before and might never meet again.

For some of us, BMT will never end. We will sit and drink and dance together till we're old and grey, telling and retelling the "torture" that was BMT, all the while carrying a telltale smile that can only be wistful.

Week 10, SOC

SOC was a breeze for some. Yet for most, it was an impassable and violent tsunami that swept their morale and pride away. Standing in front of the low wall watching your peers mount and dismount with ease while you jump and struggle is not an enjoyable experience. Embarrassing too, for those whose fear of heights kept them in shivering paranoia and cold sweat at the balancing beam and Jacob's ladder. They are shamed openly in front of their peers and made to confront what can only be described as a nightmare risen from the deepest viscera of their being, an innate fear that cannot be conquered but instead conquers the fearful. I applaud those who managed to cross their psychological obstacle. Test performance is arbitrary. They are the real winners. For those who escaped unscathed, by the sidelines, preferring to stay in their comfortably cowardly state, I shall not judge.

Me? I found SOC a breeze.

Week 10, Day 5 night

There's no such thing as ''by right''. Our army is left-handed.

Week 9, Day 2 morning

Welcome once again to another episode of Wait To Rush.

Not that I'm complaining. Yesterday's Rush To Wait nearly killed us. SOC, Strength Training, Swimming. I've come to the conclusion that all SAF acronyms beginning with the letter 'S' are designed by sadists reaving pleasure from recruits' misery. Those ending with 'C' are another can of worms - it means we get to crawl in mud. BAC, BIC, GAC, SOC, BC.

I've broken the SAF cryptologists' magnum opus of sophistry and intricate plots. Hooray?

Week 8, I think. I lost count.

I have to share an excerpt from the oh-so-uncalled-for reflections to range.

If IMT reminds us of a computer game, then live range should remind us of another part of our previous life – girls. So volatile and so very dangerous are these live rounds, and so unpredictable when it comes to (mal)functioning (or PMS-ing), they’re a match for the female species’ capricious nature. In fact, not even the don juans and cassanovas in our platoon could handle those magazines that choose to play hard-to-get. Simply put, we were screwed over by luck (incidentally also a lady).

It's amazing how pointless tedium can evolve into mindless pratter.

Field Camp, D-Day

Time to live for 6 days like a caveman without a cave.

Live? I meant die.

Week 5, Day 4 Night

I haven't blogged for a while. I haven't stated the obvious for a while.

Just got back from night training. On a Thursday. Nightwalk. Hey isn't that supposed to be taboo?

The brain atrophy's getting worse. Never in my life have I thought so much about not thinking/not being able to think. Field camp embarks on Saturday. Three options - leave brain (or what semblance is left) behind in camp OR lose brain outfield. Did I say three options? Damn... Nevermind.

Looking forward to guard duty at field camp. And SMU Law/Business interview right after where unkempt, unbathed, un-intellectual/-intelligible I in my muddy boots will impress the admissions board so. Bye bye education. Bye bye civilization.

On a side note, recently got hooked on board/card gaming and miniatures again. After all these years, I've gone full circle and now embrace good ol' geekhood again. Anyone game to start Warmachine?

Lights out.

Eight days to go.

Day 8, Evening

Training just got tougher. So did I :D

All I need to survive this island is my section (bunk) mates.

If the bed shakes again tonight... erm well, then it shakes. Too shagged to care.

7 days left till bookout!

Day 7, Evening

Waiting to rush. Waiting. Waiting...

Need to get my university application done next week. Need to get some real food for the bunk. Need to mentally prepare self for the next book in. Need to catch up with you, you and you.

Depressive day.

Day 7, Evening

I have some free time now, courtesy of Cat A (read - rain). Found out that only two beds in the whole platoon are experiencing midnight vibrations. My buddy and I. Not sure what to make of it, but not very concerned either.

Day 7, morning

My bed shakes every night after lights out. At first I thought it's normal. Then i found out mine is the only one that does.

Day 7, Morning

Eat. Sleep. Train.

Eat. Sleep. Train.

Eat. Sleep. Train.

8 days till bookout.

Day 6, Morning

There are no ghosts on Tekong.

Drats!

Day 5, Night

Doing well. I love my platoon, Bronco. PT's tough but I can feel myself and my muscles (muskles, according to section mate Darren).

Ten more days till book out. Entertain me with emails (to gmail) and smses please.

Ok lights out!

Day 1, Night

Bronco company, platoon 2, section 2, bed 4. That's where you should address your emails to.

I've things to write, but it's lights out already so i shall be 'efficient' like the army.

There's sand on my bed. I had a whopping five minutes to bathe and brush my teeth and clean my face.

But at least there were cakes.

Day 1, Morning

I'm off. I'm off. Don't miss me too much.

Endless rolling beaches, friendly staff, excellent dining. We'll see if they live up to expectations.

It's the Army, not War. I'll be back.

- We'll see if my email works tonight.

Day 0

Packed and ready. At least the bags are. I brought a weapon. It allows me to blog from hell.

Head feels a little lighter now. The hirsute baggage shorn off as with most thoughts - sanguine, choler, phlegm, melancholy and the Heart - all irrelevant because I will be Soldier. Exercise and brain atrophy will soon reduce its weight further.

It's time to make friends. Says the propagandists, "National Service makes friends of strangers"... and strangers of friends.

Army "intricacies" plague me even before day 1. The enlistment letter says Ng Cheng Wei is to report at BMTC School 1 at 0800, helpfully (thank you, Sir) pointing out a bus service plying from Pasir Ris to the jetty from 0800 to 0830. Our army is so advanced, their buses can travel through time.

Two weeks followed by one. And one more. One once again, or maybe two. And more weeks than I can count. It will end one day, but not before I make it count. Who says I can't dance in hell?

testing

Testing...

Where was I while you were getting high?

[continued]

So I became a green and starstruck Artiste Manager Intern. We should all stop sniggering at the word "Intern" because this is probably the first time any artiste management took up an 18 year old intern. who still wets his bed.

My life from 9 to 6 started revolving around photoshoots, press conferences, exclusive events and parties. Celebrities would call to inquire how I was doing (and less importantly, of course, as how I choose to see it, how their cheques, schedules and deals were coming along). It's not all showbiz glitz, and it was The Experience, first-hand.

That wasn't enough, though.

I was still hungry from the lack of success in that previous venture. My parents still fed me, but we all know that food ,hot wild sex, three sports cars in the garage and that teddy bear I've never slept without since age 3 alone can't sustain an sentient being.

To be continued...

[I am, regrettably, still mortal and shall now require victuals - more to come post-pranial]

When was the last time you did anything... Just because?

When I made my grand entrance into the office today, Richmond (the artiste manager) casually inquired what I was up to over the weekend. So proud was I to announce the magnum opus of clocking over 30 hours of sleep in two days, I literally Smirked.

For all of 48 hours, there was only one aim. I was focused; hell bent on reaching the target. At times I felt I couldn't go on with that dreadful task, but the thought of those disappointed millions should I fail kept me trudging.

So it came to be that my weekend was spent in seclusion (except for that one Arabic lesson where I was taught once again how to write my name).

One step closer to full-blown hermitage.

Ng Cheng Wei, get a life.

Where were you while we were getting high?

I hear you. Stop whining. FINE fine I'll write...

Ahem.

Haven't done this for a while... Getting the jitters- Oh 'cmon be a man!

Alright.

First the disclaimer/user-warning/prologue:

You asked for it. Don't blame me if it's long and dry and phallic.

To all - I'm glad you stuck around. Otherwise I'd feel like an idiot posting such a long update to a dead audience. Existential dilemma, you see. My feeble sense of being is only validated by an audience's recognition. If you're reading this, you must really care about me, or be really bored. In that case, get a life ; alternatively, feel free to read on.

Here it is. The real deal. Enjoy.

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

I've been reading other blogs to get/plagiarise an idea of how to go about this update. It didn't help, but at least I know now to avoid like the plague words like Good, Spankin', Boring, Revolutionary and that dreadfully overused Surreal to describe my life. Like seriously, don't blog if you can't write for nuts or don't have a life to write about.

My life has been nothing less than Godsend. Chocolate flavoured Godsend.

A levels is like the big bang of JC life ; when life starts. It rings true in all senses of the expression, because prehistoric pond bacteria was what I felt like when that epiphanic SPH rejection letter came crashing in my little cubicle on Earth. I was satisfied with my goals in life. They weren't small, but they weren't impossible. It is an understatement to say that I wanted that SPH scholarship quite badly, and had/would've slogged/schemed/slept (not necessarily in that same order or combination of verbs) my way into all 3 Editor positions in NJC. (I feel it apt at this point to declare that I did not have to foster sexual relations with anybody to get to those positions. It was far easier to kill off the other candidates.)

Not enough! Not for SPH, at least. After five minutes of mourning, I got over the fact that all I worked for those two years in JC came to naught. I knew then that I had been myopic, with a serious case of tunnel-vision. Certainly there were a million and one career options out there I should have considered... two years ago? I said to myself "Just chillax, will ya?", then promptly panicked and sent out a paranoid SOS-mail to Jeff, my friend/brother/mentor, asking for a panacea to life which was promptly bequeathed. Erm, not really. I just received (and still receive) alot of help because panaceas don't come by that often and he was out of stock. One day I will write a tribute to the amazing man.

Then Brandon and Ashish (and later Abby) came into the picture. All four of us had a vision (Bonus plus! Our names start with A B and C! How not to succeed?). We spent the month of December researching, meeting and planning and came up with a business plan which, surpassing and contradicting all expectations, calculations, predictions and what I read about my horoscope for the month, didn't work. It was, in all honesty and with no facetiousness, the pivotal month of my life. I think this is how entrepreneurship starts.

Recall that I used the metaphor of a Chocolate flavoured Godsend to convey the ecstatically divine yet atheistically secular nature of my life a few paragraphs back? I must apologise. It wasn't exactly accurate after all. There was a diamond studded gold platter to go with.

I was being a teenager that morning. You know their ilk, insoucient; lazing around at the class chalet; Jobless... for half the morning only. "Hey bro, got a job for you. Internship at an artiste management. They manage Utt, May and Choy, Jaymee Ong etc. Interested?" Jeff's sms made me teenager no longer. I was a giggling schoolgirl who can't believe her eyes.

Two weeks later, I was an artiste manager... intern.

To be continued...

[Now you know why I can't give an adequate answer when given the query "whatchabeenupto?" on MSN. If anyone's still reading, I have another two months worth of stories to tell.]