Saturday, December 17
Friday, December 16
video killed the radio star
roland lim is extremely unattractive, and has no sense of color or style. he needs to do radio and get off television.
route thirteen
Now that i have my powerbook back, what? What am I going to do? Go back to school every day or every other tday? Sit at home and mope the days away? I no longer have real motivation to leave the house, with my powerbook and my xbox. I could stay at home all day long.
Diana Krall doesn’t sound llike she means it when she sings jingle bells. Which is all and good, but it’s not the attractive kind of uncheery singing. It’s the kind that’s painful; and difficult to listen to.
It would appear that no one has ever seen anyone with a powerbook on a bus before. The shinty glowy apple is new to them. The soft clacking of the keyboard. The subtle balancing of the powerbook as the bus shifts back and forth. The person sitting under it, typing away.
What’s he doing with a powerbook on a bus? Is he showing off? Maybe he’s from Nanyang Polytechnic, doing his homework. Or he’s a writer. Or he’s some very important business-type person, typing up a contract on his way to a client meeting.
Can’t be, what. I’m dressed down today. Polo tee and jeans. I half feel like making fake letter-type formatting at the tops and bottom of what I’m typing so that people will feel thrown off and the woman seated next to me won’t realize I’m actually writing nothing more than a blog entry.
Bishan Park? Man, have I chosen a weird bus route home or what?
Oh, and speaking of Diana Krall, I’ve decided I hate Jamie Cullum.
I don’t know how much longer I can take staying where I am now. Sooner or later something will result from the constant pressure, the constant watching everything I do and watching everything my siblings do., the weekends where going out is a danger, made to feel like a previllege.
I have now ascertained that Forza motorspot is included in the Christmas xbox racing pack, and now I want it. If only I had ninety0nine dollars.
How random one gets when one is on the bus, powerbook on his lap. The world is distracting.
Diana Krall doesn’t sound llike she means it when she sings jingle bells. Which is all and good, but it’s not the attractive kind of uncheery singing. It’s the kind that’s painful; and difficult to listen to.
It would appear that no one has ever seen anyone with a powerbook on a bus before. The shinty glowy apple is new to them. The soft clacking of the keyboard. The subtle balancing of the powerbook as the bus shifts back and forth. The person sitting under it, typing away.
What’s he doing with a powerbook on a bus? Is he showing off? Maybe he’s from Nanyang Polytechnic, doing his homework. Or he’s a writer. Or he’s some very important business-type person, typing up a contract on his way to a client meeting.
Can’t be, what. I’m dressed down today. Polo tee and jeans. I half feel like making fake letter-type formatting at the tops and bottom of what I’m typing so that people will feel thrown off and the woman seated next to me won’t realize I’m actually writing nothing more than a blog entry.
Bishan Park? Man, have I chosen a weird bus route home or what?
Oh, and speaking of Diana Krall, I’ve decided I hate Jamie Cullum.
I don’t know how much longer I can take staying where I am now. Sooner or later something will result from the constant pressure, the constant watching everything I do and watching everything my siblings do., the weekends where going out is a danger, made to feel like a previllege.
I have now ascertained that Forza motorspot is included in the Christmas xbox racing pack, and now I want it. If only I had ninety0nine dollars.
How random one gets when one is on the bus, powerbook on his lap. The world is distracting.
Thursday, December 15
how you been feeling?
it was apparant already. i wasn't exactly in a good mood days before departure, and i skipped ice-skating, something i actually really wanted to do, because to many people were going and i couldn't get a straight answer from the one person i would actually have wanted to come along. had a manic episode, then ran out the hostel to walk in circles for hours.
and, then, when the day of departure itself came, i was a daze. a walking cloud. refused to talk to anyone, especially those i considered closer or i cared about. barely acknowleged those i don't, those not privvy to how i was feeling. oddly enough those that weren't close or i didn't care as much about made up the bulk of those who asked about how i was. so it got to the point when, sitting in my living room for the last time, i was asked by someone i did care about and i thought was closer to me, i was too far gone to respond.
sat on the chair, walked around the apartment, laid on the bed, sat on the balcony floor, thought, listened, nothing. brought my luggage downstairs, out by the street. the last time i would be standing there, and of all things i decided to open up my suitcase to dig out the strap that was meant to be attached to the handle of my suitcase. it was meant to allow me to pull it along without having to lift up one end of the case, but what possesed me to notice it at that instant i will never know.
of course, i was the first on the bus when we could board. i couldn't take it any more, i didn't want to stand on the sidewalk and slowly contemplate the life i was leaving and the life i was headed back towards. i didn't want to buy cream puffs that would just make me miss the place more, right away. i didn't want to speak to anyone, do anything, i just wanted to sit and, as it turned out, cry my heart out.
i don't know if anyone did, but it was of no concequence if anyone noticed anyway. what could they have done, but offer their concern or lame enquires of "what's wrong?" anyway?
every-bloody-thing was wrong, dammit.
in the week before departure i decided to, against my better judgement, watch the series finale of Six Feet Under on my PowerBook, under the comforter, on the bed. it was comforting, but the ending depressingly sad, and made even more so by the excellent choice of Sia's "Breathe Me" as the soundtrack for the finale scenes, where they play out every character's death, intersped with Claire's Toyota Prius driving her away from her family, towards New York City.
guess which particular song i put on repeat on my iPod right after i got on the bus? i had her debut album and had already fallen in love with the song. i don't know how it happened, though, and whether it would have happened if i'd chosen something else or went without my iPod altogether, but like the clichéd dam bursting, it all came out. for the entire hour-odd ride to the airport, i let everything seep out, and bleed out, and cry out.
don't ever let it be said that you haven't seen me cry, if you weren't looking when i did.
when the airport loomed, i shut down. realizing that time wasn't going to turn itself back, the bus wasn't going to make a u-turn, i would have to get off and board the plane that was going to take me a step back towards the great nothing that was my birthplace, i switched everything off, got my luggage, collected the passports, and pushed myself on.
and that was supposed to be the end of that, but i guess i haven't yet let everything out yet, have i. right now i feel like i'm going through some weird menopause/mid-life-crisis kind of breakdown, except it's happening much slower than it's supposed to. when moods change often enough to confuse yourself, and you're paranoid, and uncomfortable in your own skin, you often anticipate a physical change to accompany that as well, and failing that you hope for something horrible to happen to compeltely devaste you and legitmize how you feel and let you show how you feel.
failing even that, you take things into your own hands.
and, then, when the day of departure itself came, i was a daze. a walking cloud. refused to talk to anyone, especially those i considered closer or i cared about. barely acknowleged those i don't, those not privvy to how i was feeling. oddly enough those that weren't close or i didn't care as much about made up the bulk of those who asked about how i was. so it got to the point when, sitting in my living room for the last time, i was asked by someone i did care about and i thought was closer to me, i was too far gone to respond.
sat on the chair, walked around the apartment, laid on the bed, sat on the balcony floor, thought, listened, nothing. brought my luggage downstairs, out by the street. the last time i would be standing there, and of all things i decided to open up my suitcase to dig out the strap that was meant to be attached to the handle of my suitcase. it was meant to allow me to pull it along without having to lift up one end of the case, but what possesed me to notice it at that instant i will never know.
of course, i was the first on the bus when we could board. i couldn't take it any more, i didn't want to stand on the sidewalk and slowly contemplate the life i was leaving and the life i was headed back towards. i didn't want to buy cream puffs that would just make me miss the place more, right away. i didn't want to speak to anyone, do anything, i just wanted to sit and, as it turned out, cry my heart out.
i don't know if anyone did, but it was of no concequence if anyone noticed anyway. what could they have done, but offer their concern or lame enquires of "what's wrong?" anyway?
every-bloody-thing was wrong, dammit.
in the week before departure i decided to, against my better judgement, watch the series finale of Six Feet Under on my PowerBook, under the comforter, on the bed. it was comforting, but the ending depressingly sad, and made even more so by the excellent choice of Sia's "Breathe Me" as the soundtrack for the finale scenes, where they play out every character's death, intersped with Claire's Toyota Prius driving her away from her family, towards New York City.
Song 10: Claire leaves for New York. Everything Ends.
Sia : Breathe Me
guess which particular song i put on repeat on my iPod right after i got on the bus? i had her debut album and had already fallen in love with the song. i don't know how it happened, though, and whether it would have happened if i'd chosen something else or went without my iPod altogether, but like the clichéd dam bursting, it all came out. for the entire hour-odd ride to the airport, i let everything seep out, and bleed out, and cry out.
don't ever let it be said that you haven't seen me cry, if you weren't looking when i did.
when the airport loomed, i shut down. realizing that time wasn't going to turn itself back, the bus wasn't going to make a u-turn, i would have to get off and board the plane that was going to take me a step back towards the great nothing that was my birthplace, i switched everything off, got my luggage, collected the passports, and pushed myself on.
and that was supposed to be the end of that, but i guess i haven't yet let everything out yet, have i. right now i feel like i'm going through some weird menopause/mid-life-crisis kind of breakdown, except it's happening much slower than it's supposed to. when moods change often enough to confuse yourself, and you're paranoid, and uncomfortable in your own skin, you often anticipate a physical change to accompany that as well, and failing that you hope for something horrible to happen to compeltely devaste you and legitmize how you feel and let you show how you feel.
failing even that, you take things into your own hands.
Tuesday, December 13
my Eyes don't want to Open any more
It’s six-twelve A.M.
What am I doing? Writing the speech for the opening of “Eyes Wide Opened” (I didn’t name it), the exhibition put on by the students that went on the exchange trip to China.
Is it wise for the speech to be written less than five hours before it’s meant to be read? No.
Is it wise for the work for the exhibition not to be ready yet? No.
What happened? I don’t know.
Everything seems last minute, bad decisions made left and right, the wrong attitudes all over the place, lackluster and poorly arranged photo exhibition, meaningless journals on display, uninteresting-at-best artifacts gleaned from the few people who bothered to contribute any. People who turn up to do nothing beyond reading other people’s journals and fucking around with the music on the laptop. All work compressed into the last two days before the exhibit.
A committee of one is not one at all.
My biggest fear? This turns out to be worse than the PID exhibition. Now I never went to the PID exhibition, because no one would go with me, but I have a suspicion we might not make it.
And to be worse than a PID effort? Is really, really, sadly, pathetic.
What am I doing? Writing the speech for the opening of “Eyes Wide Opened” (I didn’t name it), the exhibition put on by the students that went on the exchange trip to China.
Is it wise for the speech to be written less than five hours before it’s meant to be read? No.
Is it wise for the work for the exhibition not to be ready yet? No.
What happened? I don’t know.
Everything seems last minute, bad decisions made left and right, the wrong attitudes all over the place, lackluster and poorly arranged photo exhibition, meaningless journals on display, uninteresting-at-best artifacts gleaned from the few people who bothered to contribute any. People who turn up to do nothing beyond reading other people’s journals and fucking around with the music on the laptop. All work compressed into the last two days before the exhibit.
A committee of one is not one at all.
My biggest fear? This turns out to be worse than the PID exhibition. Now I never went to the PID exhibition, because no one would go with me, but I have a suspicion we might not make it.
And to be worse than a PID effort? Is really, really, sadly, pathetic.
Sunday, December 11
07-17-05_2303
hey, you know what? i don't know!
point a gun to my head, or twist my arm, though, and i'll venture the guess that there isn't one.
point a gun to my head, or twist my arm, though, and i'll venture the guess that there isn't one.
The Rain's A Pain, When It Does This
What the fuck does it rain at night for? Most people are asleep so no one's going to be able to enjoy it. It's already cooler after the sun goes down. So, what the fuck for? Save it for when the sun is in the sky!
kids, listen to aaron: don't read
i read too much, into too much, and too well.
i devour books, the newspaper, The Economist, magazines, read too much into awkward social situations, body language, tone, choice of words, reactions, apparent intelligence levels, what clothes they wear, what car they drive, what mobile phone they use, if they chose which mobile phone they use, Mac or Windows, kopi-peng or mocha latte, Gilmore Girls or Channel 8 dramas, HDB or condomium, music or popular culture, Pink Martini or Perfect 10, when my parents are fighting, when my father is being ridiculous, when my aunt is tense, when i'm not supposed to go out, if everyone's looking at my Motorola and drawing their own conclusions as to where or how i got it, who's waiting for my grandfather to die, who's waiting for my aunt to die so they can collect on her insurance and CPF and assets, when my mom is being normal and human-like, which my mom is being unreasonable and unfathomable, why i have to hide my PowerBook when relatives are over, why i have to stay in on weekends, why i have to endure the weekly sunday lunches, why i "was in Malaysia" when i was in China, when my parents are getting divorced, why they should have done it when i told them to do so when i was in primary two, religous: who is, and who isn't, and who will try to force it on you, who likes me, who doesn't, who confuse me, who's interested, who wants to fall asleep, who needs to get out more, where we all are headed.
it's one thing to be able to understand why China's bubble is going to burst, and why Apple can commandeer so much respect and marketshare when its core business isn't even ten percent of its market's marketshare, why some things are worth reading and some things i put down or never touch no matter how high they are on bestsellers' lists or how much i hear about them or how critically-acclaimed they are, or how Motorola is shamelessly catering to whoever will buy their phones, even why human beings act the way they do or do what they do.
it's another to spend your life overanalyzing everything from a one-word text message to everything little thing someone does or how someone treats you through an entire week, month, or life.
every little thing that you say or do; i'm hung up, i'm hung up on you.
i devour books, the newspaper, The Economist, magazines, read too much into awkward social situations, body language, tone, choice of words, reactions, apparent intelligence levels, what clothes they wear, what car they drive, what mobile phone they use, if they chose which mobile phone they use, Mac or Windows, kopi-peng or mocha latte, Gilmore Girls or Channel 8 dramas, HDB or condomium, music or popular culture, Pink Martini or Perfect 10, when my parents are fighting, when my father is being ridiculous, when my aunt is tense, when i'm not supposed to go out, if everyone's looking at my Motorola and drawing their own conclusions as to where or how i got it, who's waiting for my grandfather to die, who's waiting for my aunt to die so they can collect on her insurance and CPF and assets, when my mom is being normal and human-like, which my mom is being unreasonable and unfathomable, why i have to hide my PowerBook when relatives are over, why i have to stay in on weekends, why i have to endure the weekly sunday lunches, why i "was in Malaysia" when i was in China, when my parents are getting divorced, why they should have done it when i told them to do so when i was in primary two, religous: who is, and who isn't, and who will try to force it on you, who likes me, who doesn't, who confuse me, who's interested, who wants to fall asleep, who needs to get out more, where we all are headed.
it's one thing to be able to understand why China's bubble is going to burst, and why Apple can commandeer so much respect and marketshare when its core business isn't even ten percent of its market's marketshare, why some things are worth reading and some things i put down or never touch no matter how high they are on bestsellers' lists or how much i hear about them or how critically-acclaimed they are, or how Motorola is shamelessly catering to whoever will buy their phones, even why human beings act the way they do or do what they do.
it's another to spend your life overanalyzing everything from a one-word text message to everything little thing someone does or how someone treats you through an entire week, month, or life.
every little thing that you say or do; i'm hung up, i'm hung up on you.
Friday, December 9
chicken stuPID.
i paid ten dollars in cab fare to make it to Chicken Little (a complete and utter piece of filth missing one ingredient: PIXAR. bye-bye, Disney.) five minutes late.
this on top of being shouted at over the phone for not taking the train (i don't recall a train station being anywhere near Temasek Polytechnic. is it part of the Circle Line?), waking late and with this horrible crick in my neck, plus a migraine, plus allergies, plus being useless in school, plus not getting to see the video, plus, plus, plus.
i am so going to disappear.
this on top of being shouted at over the phone for not taking the train (i don't recall a train station being anywhere near Temasek Polytechnic. is it part of the Circle Line?), waking late and with this horrible crick in my neck, plus a migraine, plus allergies, plus being useless in school, plus not getting to see the video, plus, plus, plus.
i am so going to disappear.
Thursday, December 8
What are you doing here?
What am i doing here? Waiting for my grandfather to die, so that i can kill myself, guilt-free.
Wednesday, December 7
speak for myself
i've spent the good part of an hour establishing that the cd kenneth and jinghui (eta: dawn had a part in it as well, apparently) gave me for my birthday isn't copy-protected. i've even run it through four different Windows-based audio players. it's odd. this release, on this label, should be copy-protected. also note the big scary FBI warning label on the back. it features on the CD's cardboard cover, as well.
well, at least i won't have to exchange away the one thing i got for my birthday. not that i wanted anything reasonable, but yeah. it was nice.
Tuesday, December 6
Sunday, December 4
Saturday, December 3
my passport.
I won't be here tomorrow, so here it is, right now. I wish i was aborted. I've had enough. There's nothing i want to do right now. I didn't want to appeal, and now i no longer want to re-apply. I don't want to be on this trip where people are going to try to celebrate my birthday even when i've warned them not to. I don't want to go anywhere, anymore. And i miss my time in china.
I hereby give up.
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