In Continuum.

That Season

Residence of Singapore should be warned that it is that season of the year again.Remember to bring an umbrella out when you are shopping,avoid standing in the middle of an open field,waving a bloody handphone in your hand like a lunatic,watch out for distant lightnings and most of all,rest your chin on the window sill when the wind blows,because it is the season when it rains,and rains,and rains.

The summer is over finally,earth probably taking its course on the further side of the orbit in space by this time of the year.The sun is so much further away,and the distance replaced by waves of rain clouds,and a part of those hovered above my camp this week,like a canopy of sorts that brought along with it refreshing winds,reminding us of the leaving summer heat.The first sign of it was when we were sitting on the grand stand before CO,and faraway the first hint of the coming storm welcomed the late afternoon.Of course,we didnt know the implications of it,but soon the next afternoon it poured like never before.

The rain spilled through the window at the end of the corridor,like torrents of oceanic waves hitting my face in small droplets of water.I swear,if i attempted the Michael Jackon "Stand-at-45-Degrees" trick i wouldve been able to do it.I dont remember a darker morning this year,the way my bunk was then,it was almost scary,really.But like all rainstorms,they are usually the best time to cuddle up in your beds and just sleep the day away.Despite the ATEC preparations going on downstairs,or rather,all over the place,i still found time to take myself into the dreamy world of my own,under sheets and in my bed.It felt great,to fall asleep to the sound of rain paddling against the window,instead of being drowned by your our sweat and wetting the sheets in the process of it.

There's something about plugging your iPod into your ears,feeling the rain on your cheeks as you rest your chin on the window sill,staring out into the darkening sky.Coldplay's "Don't Panic" going on in your head,and you truly believed the lyric,that in truth,"We live in a beautiful world/Yeah,we do/Yeah,we do..."

What comforted me,really was how the rain doesnt remind me of anything,anymore.You know,i used to think about it,myself soaking from the rain,despite the umbrella in my hand and walking up that same old hill.I used to,and im serious that i am crazy at times.But this evening while i was breaking track behind the workshop,the rain continued to fall as i wiped my forehead with my grease covered palms,and the rain soaking my t-shirt throughout,and the pin refusing to come out from the damn tracks.

Leaning ont he ten-pound hammer i looked out,reminded myself of the coming season and smiled.I know it's outfield the very next week,but that didnt prevent me from enjoying the raindrops falling on my face.Because right then,my mind was blank and nothing more than feeling the sensation of wetness upon my face.The nothingness,the emptiness,really was the true beauty of that very moment.

The Boy Who Lived Underground

Burn it down
Till the embers smoke on the ground
And start new
When your heart is an empty room

With walls of the deepest blue...

He has lost track of time,the broken clock on the bricked wall has been stuck at the same time for a long time.6.48pm,was when it all started back then,when he was having dinner with his parents,and the bright light shone in through the livingroom window,forcing them to evacuate into the basement.The windows shattered into a billion pieces of shards,surging through the air like bullets from the distant war.It front line pushed ever closer to their home then,though nobody expected it to come that soon.His father pulled opened the trap door on the floor of the garage,and pushed the whole family in just in time to see the doors blasted opened by balls of flaming death.

They've been staying below,living on rations for what seemed like eternity now.His sister Wendy's dead,breathing in too much dust causing an asthma attack a couple of weeks ago.His father carried her out into the lawns late at night afterwards,but no one followed.We dont know what he did with her,he wouldnt talk about it.But silently at night,whenever somebody brings the question up,he would cuddle in the corner alone and mumbled things to himself as he buried his long and dirty nails into his forehead,asking himself what has he done,what has he done?

The only light came in through the murky basement window mounted a metre or two above our heads.They couldnt see what was outside,what happened after that loud blast from the horizon so long ago.The world's a shade of green and yellow,the colour of the stain on that little window,measuring about half a metre square.The fresh air sipped in through the holes along the edges of the rotten wood,and it smelled like spring with mingled taste of gunpowder and blood.That raw smell of it,attacking our nostrils like the chemical gas spilled over the neighbouring countries in the morning's newspaper.

Home's face: how it ages when you're away
Spring blooms and you find the love that's true
But you don't know what now to do
Cause the chase is all you know
And she stopped running months ago...

The boy remembers still,vividly,how the outside looks like.He remembers the lazy Saturday afternoons when Wendy and himself pulled at each others' hair,or rolled around in the front lawn with their dog Charlie.Where was Charlie?He hoped dearly that he survived the blast too,taking refuge in one of the many holes he dug over the years in the backyard.These thoughts come only at night,when the window no longer provided a blurry imagination of the outside world,and on the mouldy mattress,he wonders if the war is over,and that he can play on the lawn with Wendy again,and Charlie hopping around around us so carelessly,dancing to the endless rhythem of life.He chewed on the hardened bread,and the water tasted salty all of a sudden.They were running out of food,and mother didnt know what to do then.She just cried all day for no reason at all,while his father remained in the corner,with depressions on his forehead now clearly visible.

The box was finally emptied,with the last of the sardines finished by his father,leaving only the bottled water on the shelves as well as Charlie's dog food in the corner of it all.In times like these,the boy thought,is when things get really hard.Through the window he sniffs,that is what he does when everything turns so bleak.He asked his father numerous times,when they can open that damn hatch door up above so that they can go out and live their normal lives again.Usually,his father would scorn and ask him to go back to sleep,or do something useful with the window.But there was one night,when his father erupted into a string of vulgarities,and broke a bottle full of rusty nails,and threatened to cut his throat with those if the boy wouldnt stop asking hopeless and useless questions.He never asked them again,not when the nails are still strewned on the floor like that,and the depression on his father's forehead still growing deeper and deeper.

They had a stack of magazines under the shelves,and the boy found it one day while searching for more of Charlie's food.They were old National Geographic magazines,and flipping through the pages the boy was suddenly reminded of the beauty of the world,how much couldve been saved if something out there has done something,if everybody didnt have to stop waiting for the world to change,for the war to begin.He ran his fingers over the waterfalls and the mountains,the tigers in the plains of Africa.He wonders if they survived the war as well,like Charlie mightve did in one of his holes just a distance away.He made up his mind then,that the grass is and will be greener on the other side.At least,outside the window.

And all you see
Is where else you could be
When you're at home
Out on the street
Are so many possibilities
To not be alone...

So out of the window,he fled one day.Breaking the glass with his elbow,and the blood soaked through his long sleeved shirt.But he didnt care,he thought.He wanted the taste of freedom once more.His parents yelled after him,but he didnt care,for the temptation of a greener land was way too tempting,and he was too desperate to be rational about it.

It was night,and the streetlamps no longer worked proper.It was dark everywhere,with the sky dimly lid in the distance with orange flames,licking at the night sky like devilish tongues.He tripped over something,and he looked down to find his old three-wheeled bike,on its side by the front lawn.On the streets were papers and furnitures,everywhere with burned cars and all around,dead bodies of people.His neighbour Francis and his mother Ruth,shot in the back of the head and laid there on the street,gathering waves of flies.The boy covered his nose,and went down the street further,until at the very end of what was left of his estate,he saw a hill of burning clothings,burning softly into the night.

The flames and smoke climbed out of every window
And disappeared with everything that you held dear
And you shed not a single tear for the things that you didn't need
'Cause you knew you were finally free...

But they werent clothings,he later realised.But they were bodies of people,everybody who were ever caught,laid on top of one another,turning into ashes and the smell of burning flesh.The smoke circled and swirled into the night sky,and for a moment then,the boy watched it in disbelief.The grass wasnt greener on the other side,just bloodier.He thought.So much death,so much memories...lost in the flames and the wind.

He crawled back in through the window then,and his father dragged him in with an angry force.He was worried for him,he thought the boy.His mother cried somemore,but no longer with sadness,just glad that her son has returned.But the boy changed,for he knew that in this place underground,here is the only free world he is ever going to live in,the only refuge he is going to enjoy himself endlessly,despite the four walls,with old paints falling off with the hours.

'Cause all you see
Is where else you could be when you're at home
Out on the street
Are so many possibilities to not be alone...

Everything,through the days of solitude in that confined space under his house's garage,he created an illusion,and mirage of the outside world,the possibility that it might be better than what he was going through underground,with that window acting like a seal to the outside world,the supposed freedom.But once he got there,he realised,that it wasnt as good as he had predicted,no grass to speak of even if they really were indeed,greener on the other side.They were stained by blood then,with memories of the people he ever knew,running away with death as they were consumed by the raging flames.He was safe in that underground room,and from that very day on he helped his father board up the small window in the wall.The air outside no longer smelled like fresh spring,but a constant wave of blood and ash,probably the ones from the bodies down the street.He resented the outside world,what was thought to be so much more beautiful than where he was.And right then,before the boarded window,he smiled for the first time in such a long time,and closed his eyes for the very last time...

And all you see
Is where else you could be when you're at home
There on the street
Are so many possibilities to not be alone...

Covered in Rain

In these days with the world gettin colder
She spends more time sleeping over
Than I planned
Tonight we're gonna order in
Drinkin wine and watchin CNN
It dark I know but then again
It's the brightest thing I've got...

August,2006.I think this is a month full of...it.You know,one of those months in the year when everything you loathe,happens.You dont really know why they always gather during the same short peroid of time,but when they do you just feel like tearing your hair out and strangle somebody off the streets.Because considering all the stuff that ive been through in August alone,i think if i get a hundred dollars for every misfortune i couldve been halfway to my own million mark right now.

Handphone,money,iPod lost,then came the ultimate hit: My computer crashed yesterday morning.I woke up just as usual,and turned on my computer with my left toe,then went on out to have breakfast.When i came back,Windows was still starting up,and it just kept restarting over and over again.Got it fixed,and the nice technical guy(Who didnt charge me a single cent)told me that Windows crashed.He did everything he could to prevent the flat-lining of my C Drive data,but they're all gone.Just...gone.

Let's make a sort of list now.I lost a lot of my songs,especially the older ones,my novels and short stories,the songs i wrote,pictures from India,Coldplay,the things my friends sent over,as well as the programs that worked in my computer.

I admit,i was realy frustrated then,and had my fingers running through my hair cursing my head off.But i recovered most of the stuff,save for the pictures(Which,thanks to Ahmad and QinYou,i retrieved some),so i guess that's the most i can ask for,right?It's as good as it gets.

It felt like this really major spring cleaning of sorts.A crazy woman you hire from some agency to do the cleaning for you,and she ends up clearing out everything in your room.Before you know it,they are in the middle of a rubbish hill off the coast,ready to be incinerated to become electrical power for the rest of your country.The very same electrical power that is generated might be the one used to light your neon tubes,as you open your door to discover the empty room,following by a ear-piercing scream and then a murder of the crazy maid.

That's the kind of spring cleaning you wouldnt want to have.Not during any season of the year,no way.So everything was gone,and seeing the empty folders which used to have pictures inside,sucked.It's that empty feeling in your heart,like something's missing.I know,there's something missing all the time.But,this hole is somewhat a lot more painful than...well,anything really.I hate the fact that i am a hopeless sentimentalist instead of a romantic.I am sentimental,so sue me for that.I keep the most mundane and useless stuff in my computer,despite not using them at all.Really,and the loss of those things,though every inch of my right sense is telling me that it is OKAY to lose some of the things,i still feel that prick of the tip of the needle against my heart.It sucks,but just what the hell can i do about it,really.

When I'm covered in rain, rain
When I'm covered in rain, rain, rain, rain
Now I'm covered in rain, rain
Covered in rain...

It's been too long since the last time anything happened.The slumps have gotten worse after the scorching summer sun came and went.The lot of us collapsed amongst rubbish piles,with flies minding their businesses over our heads and into our nostrils at times.The stench was excruciating,but in relative to the hunger that came from the lack of food,nobody cared about the smell anymore.Men rummaged through the dumps,looking for leftovers amongst dogs and cats,while others robbed or stole from unsuspecting members of our society.

The tides came and went,and it brought along with it only the filth from city from the bay.Oil spills,staining the beaches along our houses into a ugly black hue.Stained sand and slim,covered the sides of the rotten wood used to make the houses,and inside these houses the simplest of all daily necessities.In my house,a table rests at the far corner of it,and on top of that,leftovers from the dinner two days before.A spoon stuck out of it,and on it grains of rice attracting flies in swamps.I was on the chair,just staring at them,making our numbers and shapes,just admiring the colour of the light upon these flies wings,as they reflected into multi-colour rainbows.

I couldnt take myself,i couldnt take myself.We hated our state,but there wasnt much we could do about it.We were sentimentalists,not romantics.We dont move on,and we are always in the same place hoping for something and nothing to happen all at the same time.It's such a conflicting emotional state,everybody's in a state of mental arrest somehow,just a moment in time when everything is forgotten by ourselves and the outside world.The days grew old,and as day turns to night the beach turns cold.

The sea breeze was strong,and it threatened to blow our huts down like straws on strings.We held them together with more rotten wood,but they dont seem to work against the wrath of nature.So i cuddled up inside my house with a small fire raging in the middle of the house,with no flooring whatsoever.There i sat,alone with my back against the wall as a sort of support,afraid that once the house goes with the wind,my life is going to be gone with it.But what is my life now,in the first place?Just the summation of trash,dirt,filth and so much hate for myself.What is it worth,what is it worth?

I hooked out an old photograph from my pocket,now tattered and broken.It's an old photograph,now brown and worn out.A girl is in the picture,and she had her hair tied back in a neat ponytail.It was taken so long ago,and without a watch i've forgotten how long it has been.I've lost count of time,like so many other things in my life.I ran my thumb over her face,feeling the surface of the photograph,still smooth and soft,so fragile like the memory of her in his head,fleeing with the ticking of time,the creaking of rotten wood,the blast of the wind.I cried,and a drop of tear dropped onto the photograph.I wiped it,and then tried again,but the stain wouldnt go away.Like the house,like myself,everything is so stained and dirty now.So uncomfortable,where is the life that ive had before?

From fireworks to fireplaces,
Summer stole what fall replaces
And now we're people watching
All the people people watching us right back
Standing by the missing signs
At the CVS, by the checkout line
She puts her quiet hands in mine,
cause she's the brightest thing I've got...

A rumbled and then a distant roar.It didnt sound organic,no.It was the roar of something else,and the constance of it was scaring me.Everybody left their huts and risked their heads in the raging wind,and in the horizon,though dimly visible,a wall of wave was coming towards the shore at high speed.People screamed,and ran for their lives and some back into their house,which was folly against the might of the crash wave.It came,and swept,and rained hell on us on top of the rain now coming down on us hard like cannonballs.I held on to my dear life to a log sticking out of the beach,with my elbow wrapped around it like rope i hung on.The wave kept coming,and i felt my life flowing away with the currents,just allowing myself to succumb to the fate.

Just then,before i gave up,the waves went away.It brought along with it the houses,the filth of the village,and all that were left were the foundations of the houses.Just logs sticking out here and there,and the other villagers were nowhere to be seen now.I thought i heard screams from far off in the dark horizon,but soon they disappearing into the night,blending into the howling of the wind through the dark.

I was covered in wet mud then,like a bath of sorts then.I fingered my pocket,and panick took over me as i looked around the restricted space of my breast pocket.It was gone,i thought.Her picture,gone.I searched desperately amongst the mud,the wreckages.The beach and down by the shore.It was nowhere to be found,not even a trace of it.I thought i heard her screaming from the photograph,but how was that even possible?

I fought around in the water,as the waves came to the height of my ankles,licking it like millions of little tongues.The wind subsided,and everything died down into a dead silence.I found myself suddenly clean of all the dirt that ever decided to settle itself upon my body.And right then,as i kneeled by the shore with the water already up to my waist,i felt cleansed and clean.I felt,for the first time in so long,free from so many burdens of life.Sure,the picture was gone.My shelter was gone,but for that moment,just that moment,i was free...

And come december Lydia left.
She mentioned something bout it being for the best,
And I can't say I disagree, and its killing me.
and now Im standing facing west
tracing my fingers round her silouette
I havent gotten used to you
but its the best thing I got...

Bold as Love

Anger he smiles, towering in shiny metallic purple armour
Queen jealousy, envy waits behind him
Her fiery green gown sneers at the grassy ground

Blue are the life-giving waters taken for granted,
They quietly understand
Once happy turquoise armies lay opposite ready,
But wonder why the fight is on

But theyre all bold as love,
Yeah, theyre all bold as love
Yeah, theyre all bold as love
Just ask the axis...

My red is so confident that he flashes trophies of war and
Ribbons of euphoria
Orange is young, full of daring,
But very unsteady for the first go round
My yellow in this case is not so mellow
In fact Im trying to say its frigthened like me
And all these emotions of mine keep holding me from, eh,
Giving my life to a rainbow like you

But yeah, Im bold as love
Yeah, yeah
Well Im bold, bold as love
Im bold as love
Just ask the axis
Yeah, yeah, yeah

Pluto Vs. Hell

'..."Pluto is dead," said Caltech researcher Mike Brown, who spoke with reporters via a teleconference while monitoring the vote. The decision also means a Pluto-sized object that Brown discovered will not be called a planet.

"Pluto is not a planet," Brown said. "There are finally, officially, eight planets in the solar system."

The vote involved just 424 astronomers who remained for the last day of a meeting of the International Astronomical Union (IAU). Already it is being challenged.

"I'm embarassed for astornomy. Less than 5 percent of the world's astronomers voted," said Alan Stern, leader of NASA's New Horizon's mission to Pluto and a scientist at the Southwest Research Institute. "This definition stinks, for technical reasons."...'

--- www.space.com

As all of your readers of the newspaper,watcher of the news on television,or the kind of person who sits in front of your computer all day long,you mightve already known that Pluto,you know,the planet furthest away from the Sun,is no longer a planet.Shocking,it might be,for those out there recieving this news for the first time.Like myself,when i first read about it at an internet forum.I found it incredibly DUMB,that those bloody scientists are not doing anything more useful than reviewing the status of different planets and denoncing them,stuff like that.I mean,like the above,less than 5% of the world's astronomers voted about this decision.It's like the change of a president of a country with less than 5% of the population voting.It's just...dumbass.

Anyway,this entry is not going to be about Pluto,because im not exactly the kind of person who is capable of going into great length to explain just WHY Pluto is no longer a planet.Somebody probably made that decision,and it's not like my explanation is going to make a difference,whatsoever.This entry,essentially,really is about a little thought that i came up with one day,many many days ago.

Sort of like Pluto,i think Hell is not exactly the kinda place we all imagine it to be.You know,in cartoons or books we already read,or picture it as a place full of magma,boiling hot and licking the heels of your feet as youtr toil with sandbags threw across your shoulders,down endless corridors of burning spikes and raging fire,and demons with horns whipping you at your back,shouting,"Toil!Toil!Toil!"

There are other images of hell,though.I read about it in a book before,called Bart Simpson's Guide to Life.Speaking of which,i think it is still with Bernice.Bloody hell,and it has been with her for like...three years already.Bernice!!!

Anyway,in the book Bart Simpson(Yeah,the one and only),argues with a friend of his between Heaven and Hell.Church bells to rock music.Angels to hot Bikini babes.Holy feasts to junk food.Harps to pitch forks.Angels to demons.Cigars to cigarettes.Coffee to Vodka.Whatever.You get the picture.You dont exactly get punished in Hell,just a different sort of society from Heaven up above,where you continue to sin,probably till you are enlightened one way or another,then you get the ultimate pass to Heaven.

That sort of inspired me,to personally denounce Hell's status to just...well,non-existent.I think Hell,doesnt exist.Basically,simply putting it.Which is a strange thing because i am the kind of person who believes in symmetry in everything,a sort of balance in life.You have Heaven and you have a Hell,naturally,theoretically.But no,what i am saying is that Hell isnt what everybody thinks the sinners go.They dont toil under our feets in raging fire,in not but a piece of cloth around their waist.

Hell,in fact,i think,is right here on Earth.Or rather,Hell IS Earth.

Imagine Hitler at the gates of Heaven when he dies.'Next!',shouted somebody at the counter,next to the gate.There is a vacancy sign up at the side of the gate,with a big "Yes" and a big "No",for admission purposes,of course.At the gate,that guy at the counter reads you your sins,or whatever you did in life.

"You are responsible for the death of 220,000 Sinti and Roma,6 million Jews,500,000 Serbs,200,000 disabled,80,000 to 200,000 Freemasons,100,000 Communists,10,000 to 25,000 Homosexual men,2,500 to 5,000 Jehovah's Witnesses.Enough said."

The neon light for the "No" comes up,and a trap door below his feet opens.He falls through,and everybody would expect him to fall to Hell,right?I mean,where hell can this monster go instead of there?

That is traditionally speaking,of course.But i think Hell doesnt exist at all.Take Dalai Lama for example.You know how some Christians,the extremists,claim that if you do not believe in them,you go to Hell after death,yada yada,all that shit,all that jazz,blah blah blah.Which really is,ridiculous if you ask me.What of Dalai Lama,then.He is OBVIOUSLY not a Christian,so what is he going to go when he dies?Yeah,in Tibet certain practises of burials still exists.That includes,carrying the body up into the mountains.After being,stripped,skinned,sliced,diced,the flesh are fed to the Eagles,or Vultures.One of them,not too sure.Im rather sure that Dalai Lama is not merely going to end up in some animal's stomach,right?

So,my theory is that when a supposed person goes to Hell,he comes back to Earth to be reborn.Hell,in fact,is on Earth.The worse sinners,of course,probably would be born in some screwed up country like Israel,Rwanda or something,with war and stuff everywhere.The not-so-bad sinners,thiefs and stuff,probably becomes everybody else.The normal people,everybody.

Because i figured,that there is nothing worse than life,itself.Life is the ultimate test,you know.That is of course,if Heaven exists.Life really is the test of,whether you are worthy enough to go to Heaven,or not.Do you not be thankful when something good happens to you?Do you not push on when something bad happens to you?Do you not dust yourself off,smile and carry on with the journey ahead?Or do you sin again and again in life,proving yourself unworthy of the gates of Heaven.I think,that by throwing people back to Earth,or Hell,is sort of like the second chance for everybody to prove themselves.We were probably all sinners in our last life,we didnt prove ourselves enough to enter Heaven.So here we are,in hell,in life,trying to gain admission.Besides,it helps with the population control in Heaven,no?

21 Steps to Heaven

"...That day, for no particular reason, I decided to go for a little run. So I ran to the end of the road. And when I got there, I thought maybe I'd run to the end of town. And when I got there, I thought maybe I'd just run across Greenbow County. And I figured, since I run this far, maybe I'd just run across the great state of Alabama. And that's what I did. I ran clear across Alabama. For no particular reason I just kept on going. I ran clear to the ocean. And when I got there, I figured, since I'd gone this far, I might as well turn around, just keep on going. When I got to another ocean, I figured, since I'd gone this far, I might as well just turn back, keep right on going..."

--- Forrest Gump

I dont think anybody really knows why Forrest Gump took off from the comfort of his Alabama home that morning.It wasnt explained in the movies,or maybe everybody figured it was just some sort of...a switch going off in his head.But that morning,after Jenny left Forrest,as he sat at his porch alone with his running shoes on,he took off down the dirt road and then...well,as mentioned above,a couple of times across the country.Coast to coast.

People say that he is retarded in movie,it doesnt matter why the hell he did the things he did.For example,leaping into the sea after seeing Lt. Dan Taylor.It mightve been just a crazy act,but i guess in a way,spontaneously,Forrest realised that running is such a therapeutic thing.Im not saying that i am a big fan of running.The way your lungs sort of shrinks,the way it pulls itself in,and you find it hard to breathe.Your sweat all over your body,your shirt sticking to your skin,and the way your joints ache with stabbing pain everything your foot sends impacts up your legs.Yeah,i know.I hate running.I hate it with such a passion.But on the other hand,as exhaustion takes over,as your body wears itself out,there's a sort of state in your mind when everything goes blank and clear.Like you are in this huge empty room,or hall,and everybody disappears all around you.It's true,when you are in that state of mind,and i guess that,to me,is the best part about running.

It's AHM once again.I still i remember a year ago(It's already been a year!),when Eugene-Motherfucking-Sim told us that he was going to run the 21km in the morning,then join us for the 12km run later.He then appeared with us,all dried up and said that the bus apparently didnt pick him up at his place.Or,in my opinion,he simply didnt wake up to dare the challenge.All mouth and no guts huh,Eugene?

This year's a little different.Think the army decided to up a notch at the distance we ran,and decided that everybody's going to run a full 21km this time,a half marathon.Which also means,aside from the fact that it is going to tire everybody out,that we are supposed to wake up at 3am and then start the run by 530am.I think i dont remember waking up that early in my life,not even during the outfield days.As the alarmy softly built up its volume this morning in the quiet bunk,i opened my eyes to the reflective surfaces beside the neon tubes above me,the way the lights from the corridors reflected off it.I traced the edges of the reflection,and swung my body out of the side of the bed.Groaned,swore,and dressed up.

Breakfast was horrendous.Chocolate buns were all right,but let's just say the cupcakes looked like they were leftover food from the neighbouring Tengah Airbase.So that was my breakfast,as we took the chartered bus down to town for the incredible 21km run.Or,like i like to call it especially for this entry,the 21 steps to Heaven.

The driver blasted the music from the radio station then,and i could barely hear what i was listening to on my iPod.Everybody dozed off on the bus then,halfway along PIE and the night still young.Our body swayed a little,as i mumbled to the lyrics to Yeah Yeah Yeahs' songs,trying to wake myself up for good.

It's a beautiful sight in town really,to be there at 4am with the streets nearly empty,and cars coming down the street at one every five minutes or so.It reminded me of the scene from Vanilla Sky,when Tom Cruise's character runs down an empty New York City street.A couple of drunkards stumbled out of Chijmes then,and staggered across the street while the light was still red.It was quite an experience,really,even before the run officially started.

I dont think i have ever seen THAT many people gathered in the same place in town,at that time in the morning.The Padang field,like last year,was jam-packed with participants of the 21km run.We made our way onto the bridge,where the start line was,and just waited for the gun to go off.I cant really illustrate,or tell you just how many people were actually there.But when we were finally flagged off,after almost dozing off with my chin on my knees,we took nearly ten minutes to actually CROSS the start line.That's the number of people there then,just waves of them like armies of ants,marching down a path to battle or something.It was quite a sight,and to see that many people on empty streets,differed from the sight last year in broad daylight.And i must say,that it was a sight worthy of remembrance indeed.

Throughout the run i sort of stayed with Jonathan,because i know how boring running alone can get.Really,i tried that last year and it was dead boring.I swear,if i dont die from the run im going to die from boredom,easily.We both have some kind of knee problems,which caused us to slow down on numerous occasions.But we pushed on anyway,and along the way commented on almost everything in sight.It's a strange and interesting way to see the city on foot,going through streets you would normally go onto in the backseat of your mother's car.Nicoll Highway's screwed up on foot,ECP's climb seemed endless and the run down felt amazing.

Daylight slowly broke through the clouds,and the cars built up beside the barricades,as waves of us continued to flood down the streets of the city.We ran from ECP initially,up and down the Benjamin Shears' Bridge,into East Coast Park.Made a U-Turn there,down to Tanjong Rhu area where Krishna stays,then down to Nicoll Highway.That,all the way down to Bridge Road,then a strange road called Martin Road.Up to Bugis area where my sister studies,down to Dhoby Ghaut area and up the side of YMCA.Back around it and went up to Tanjong Pagar,Outram area.Finally,the race ended after we went along Still Road,i think it is called,then up Parliment Lane and back to Padang.

It was a crazy stretch,and to be honest i think the rain clouds above were what drove me to run towards the very end.I wanted to save my bag from the rain,considering how nobody is going to help you keep it under a shelter,whatever.I completed the race just in time,and met up with Ahmad soon after to cab home.

I think along the way it was rather enlightening,aside from the renewing of Singapore's general Geography.I thought everything became so simple,and in a way i became so carefree out there on the road.It was just my pair of feet,rubbing against the base of my shoes as the soles of them slowly came off along the way,as they went over all the different kinds of road.Grassy ones,bricked ones,tiled ones,tarmac ones,sandy ones,the ones covered with styrofoam cups,the ones with wet sponges,the ones littered with spit which i tried to avoid,and so on.It was really in the head,more than a physical matter of things.I think everybody is capable of finishing the race.Because really,timing does matter at all.What mattered then,was your pair of feet,moving ever forward,till it crosses the finish line and you are done.

As tired as i was,i found it therapeutic,as the rain slowly fell and i was caught in the rain,drenched throughout by both the rainwater and my own sweat.But i carried on,down the street and back home.It felt good,when i finished it finally and had my palms to my knees,panting like a dog.But i know,that such an experience,though i am probably never going to undertake it again,is a refreshing and mind-opening experience altogether.I know,there's a blister right now,under my left feet.But who cares,as wide as it is opened up into a gaping wound,my mind is opened as well.

A Continuingly Burning Hallway

"...And this is a song that...i have no idea how i am gonna play this live,because this is definitely the most,kind of emotionally confrontational song for me.And you know,time is moving forward all the time.We know that,but it's kind of like running out of a continuingly burning hallway,and you cant go back and get your stuff.And all i want to do is yell,'I want to go get my stuff!'.People going,'You cant,keep running!'.This fireball is coming up behind you.Not exactly as in Indiana Jones,as that but it's...feels like that sometimes.This is a song begging to go back,and it is called 'Stop this Train'..."

--- John Mayer

It is emotionally confrontational,isnt it?Not just the lyrics to John Mayer's new song Stop this Train,but something in the lyrics of the song that relates to everything,everyone that lives with time ticking down every minute of their lives.We are bound to time and time to our lives,and we are like this conjoined brothers,living with each other but not necessarily happy about each other's existence.You dont really want,or like the fact that you are joined up somewhere with this other creature,but you cant exactly separate the both of you because by doing so,one of you is going to die.The chances of living is about 50/50,and in the case of Time Vs. Life,Time has the ultimate upper hand,i guess.Because in time,nothing changes.Only changes,and nothing else.

Life is like this fireball,devouring everything in its path down the hallway of life.You know,like taking with it the floorboards,the wallpapers,everything that had your smell,your sweat,your memories on them.Some of them you saved with your memory,your head as your dash desperately down this hallway.But the rest,some of the ones you treasure the most,lost in the flames as you run for your life,just wanting to go back into the fire to get back what it took from you.

John Mayer reminded me of this fear that has been inside of me for a long time,but like some sleeping dragon in the deepest pits of earth,totally forgotten and lost in the midst of time.It is the fear of time,the way it is moving on so fast and so slow at the same time.You know,right now if you are to count from a minute all the way from the first second down to the last.It's going to be awfully long and tedious im sure,but if you are banging your head to a cool new song on radio,those three to four minutes arent going to be nearly as long as that one minute you attempted to countdown.

It's just human nature to push things,always ahead of us because this minute in time,this moment in our lives,everything is so slow.We then have this false image,this mirage of sorts that things are always going to remain this way till the end of time,till the end of your life perhaps.That there will always be TIME for you to do something about...well,something.I dont know,whatever it is i guess.This growing fear,of disappearing opportunities,things that couldve been done going down the gutter,into the ball of flame coming down the hallway,is growing inside of me and i cant sleep at night,all of a sudden.Like now,at 2.02am,sitting in front of my computer with my eyelids hanging over,threatening to shut the world out of my mind.You just want to sit up and do something about it right now,this raging fire.I dont know,to drench it with a fire extinguisher,or a hose or something.But everything is too late,isnt it?The fire is too fierce,and all you've got is a bucket of water,and once that is gone there is no stopping of this fireball ever again.So there you are,wondering about your next move,wondering if it is all too late.And it is 2.02am,you realised.Already,it is too late.

I was just speaking to...well,her all over again.It is a wonderful thing,really.But i shant speak of that just yet.I guess i am a little tired today to be overly excited about that.Besides,im a little high as well after listening to John Mayer's latest album.Anyway,i was speaking to her about aging,and how the fact that my age officially starts with a two is rather petrifying.I mean,that spells two full decades on planet Earth,and as the fireball rages down the hallway you wonder what it has already burnt away,what it is going to burn away as it proceeds down the hall.What have i done,what has been consumed and remembered,in my two decades of life?What is going to be devoured,remembered in the following years?

I dont know,to be honest about it.I dont know what i am going to do.I am twenty years old this year,and what the hell have i accomplished?How much CAN i accomplish in the years to come?I am witnessing the dying of my youth,the coming of age,and the fear and the horrors that sort of...comes with it.It is daunting,and at the same time this childhood fear sort of creeps out from under my bed.

I used to sneak into my parents' room,and climbing between them late at night and ask my mother about questions concerning death.It was a rather heavy topic,and i guess in a way i was fascinated about it in a very...frightful sort of way.I remember telling her,that death itself was nothing to be afraid of.Facing death to me,right then,wasnt something to be scared of.But rather,facing death as your loved ones faces them,was.I didnt want my parents to go,the fear of death taking them one day,the way life takes them into that raging ball of fire.Im not sure if i got over that fear,the way phobias and fears sort of stays with your,the way you are traumatized by a certain incident in life,so bad you cannot shake it off even after you wake,this horrendous nightmare.

Perhaps that is why i have this blog in the first place,to salvage anything from the wreckage left by the raging fire.It's not going to be the same,of course,between experiencing it and reading it in words a couple of years down the road.No,it's not going to be the same.But i guess,after being swept by a sea of fire,nothing is ever the same again,right?

Yeah,John.I am scared too.In fact i am petrified.Will i be renegotiating by the time i am 68 as well.I have no idea.Will i live to 68,and will i be proud of what i did,what i didnt do?It's so hard to predict the future,the uncertainty of it is daunting enough.I think we spend too much time thinking about the uncertainty of future that we forget that it is the past sometimes that is the real threat to us.Isnt it true,that memories are sweet if you dont have to deal with them?And we always do,we always have to deal with the past.Because if we dig deeper,if we go on tracing like we always do,all we get is going to be dirty.

And i just want this sort of,train.This transport to take me away,carelessly into the night and not caring at all about the world around me.To be protected,because i know within the walls of this train i am going to safe,from the fire down the hallway.I dont know how i am going to turn out at the destination,the final destination.But i guess,all i know is that i have to start treasuring the things,before it,along with everything else,disappears with the fire that is continuingly coming down the burning hallway.

Profound Confusion

I have read a hell lot of books in my lifetime.I mean,to some professor off a campus,or perhaps some sixty year old library who has worked in the same library for thirty years,and the only way to murder that boredom that comes along with the stamping of books at the counter is to read the mountains of books before you,the number of books that i have read is probably a little taller than an average man as to,say,Mt. Everest.I did a little counting of all the books that i have read last week,and it amounted to a little more than 200.That is,of course,including the childhood books that i read,as well as the more recent books that i bought myself,the ones that i keep in my room instead of my ex-room,gathering dust.

So after reading that many books,putting the older stuff aside,from the collection that i have in my room,there are the really brilliant books,there are the books that made me smile and laugh,there are the books that made me curse under my breath,either for it's excellence or boredom,or there are the books that were plain...bad.People say that books are the top reason to the shortening of life expectancy in the boredom of one's life.But that statistic wouldnt hold,if you put the context to a very badly written book.

I cant say that the books that i disliked were the ones condemned by the general public.Some are,sure.But there are the ones so well-written,i didnt like them.Take "Lawrence of Arabia" for example,the movie with Peter O'Toole and the bloody desert.Everybody loves it,and that movie probably appears on seven out of ten top 100 lists all over the internet.But i didnt like it,after watching it in my room,stealing the Dvd from my neighbour's house when they were out for a family vacation,which i carefully replaced to it's original position.I even took special notice of the movie before and after the movie.

Anyway,like the above mentioned movie,it's probably not because the movie was bad,but either because the era is drastically different,or the problem of not being able to understand the context of the book.In the movie,there was a scene with three minutes of the horizon of the desert,and the shadow of a rider just forming at the very end of it.That scene,for a full three minutes.I nearly killed myself watching it,really.

So,let's bring the focus back to books here.There are a couple of books on my shelves that i'd like to warn people about.They left be profoundly confused halfway through,and i have this bad habit of leaving the book unfinished if i find it not to my liking.I know,i hate to think that i have wasted money on a book,and furthermore pushing that guilt by not finishing it at all.But then again,i guess this all depends on the reading habits of everybody.For me,i guess,if i cannot tolerate this book i shouldnt go on reading it.It sort of cheapens the book,if you just drag yourself through the rest of the book without actually knowing what the author is trying to convey?That is especially true,to me,when the book is well-written,just not my cup of tea.You know,like the wrote weather or the wrong bag of tea leaf,whatever.Just the wrong flavour altogether,i guess.

Besides those,of course,there are the really atrocious ones,the ones that were just...bad.I still want my bloody money back Mr. Gao Xing Jian.I dont give a shit if you won the Nobel Prize for Literature or not.I still want my money back for your trash that i bought.

1)The Shipping News by Annie Proulx

I liked the short stories written by Annie Proulx.For those of you who might not know her all that well,she is the author behind Brokeback Mountain,which i liked by the way.I decided to pick up this other book by her a couple of months ago,hearing that it won both the Pulitzer and the National Book Award.

So i started reading,and it is about this guy from the US,with two kids and a dead wife who was terrible to him when she was alive.He decided to move back to his homeland: Newfound Land,and then become a news reporter at a local paper.The paper,famous for it's fake car accident stories as well as shipwrecks,became even more famous when he took over and started reporting news related to ships coming in and out of ports.On his journey through the island,aside from taking care of his jids and job,he meets a woman and falls for her and stuff.

The book was good,but it dragged soo much that i wasnt even sure about the existence of a plot.I mean,sure i love books with the meaning of life being the ultimate goal of a quest.But this man's journey through the rocky beaches of Newfoundland pissed me off because it was just so...mundane.I couldnt get through the book,despite being about 3/4 through it.It was just...plain.I guess.Plain,what a word.

2)Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder

I'm not going to blame Corinna for this,because the book did look interesting the moment i picked it up.I mean,come on.A girl recieves a note in her mailbox that says,"Who are you?" and "Where does the world come from?" sounded seamlessly cool.It was like some sort of thriller,the magnitude of Dan Brown's books,with a twist of Socrates and Plato.How brilliant!

But i was horribly wrong,after reading not even 1/4 of the book.It revolves around the letters written by this...strange middle age man and the girl called Sophie.She doesnt know who he is,just this weird old man who keeps writing to her regarding some philosophical questions.They interested her,and she didnt care if she didnt know this man at all.She continued to 'converse' with this man,and found out more about Socrates' and Plato's views on the world back in ancient Greece.

First of all,if i am the parents of Sophie i am going to freak out that she is exchanging letters with this middle aged man.Besides,Sophie is like...fifteen or something in the book.Im sure she can think for herself,and the fact that she was conversing with a man not because he is in any way charming,good looking,but because he asks weird philosophical questions...not realistic at all.This book is not even meant to be,in any way,fantastical in the first place.

The book is a translated book,which means that a lot of it depends on the translator.I think this edition of Sophie's World has the WORST translator ever.The lines by Sophie was just ridiculous.I mean,nobody SAYS things like that.She was very two-dimensional,just regurgitated everything she read in the letters to her mother.Her emotions were like,"This is so exciting!" or "This is so interesting!".The way the text was translated made Sophie sound like some autistic kid trapped in her brain with this middle aged man,speaking off Plato's philosphies,which by the way doesnt make any chicken sense whatsoever.

3)The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje

I think i quoted from this book somewhere in this blog,and i think the common misconception would by that if i quote from a book,it has got to be good.Not really,actually.The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje is the kind of book which i classify under the "Exquisite High Tea" category.However expensive this tea is,however royal it's gonna be,im always going to prefer a cup of coffee with a couple of friends in a lazy Sunday afternoon.Because really,this book was written in some of the most beautiful,brilliant way a book could ever possibly be written.

But,there is a problem.The book was self-centered.It revolves around,of course,an English Patient,recused from the wreckage of a burning plane at the end of the second World War,and placed in an emptied hospital in Florence,Italy,taken care by a nurse who falls in love with him despite his disfigured face and stuff through the book he brought along with him,and the stories he told of the burning desert and his adventures.

Sounds interesting,sure.The cover of the book was intriguing in a very melancholic way by itself.It had a picture of a naked woman,leaning against the sink just pondering over something,like the main female character as she looked into the mirror for the first time after years,finding a dead corpse before her.

Anyway,i didnt know just WHERE the book was heading.I found out about the woman behind the patient,some of his adventures,the 'guests' that visited the hospital.But the book just kept building around the same plot,telling the same stories over and over again,only from different perspective.Im making the book sound really interesting here,and i am not giving justice to just how...drastically different the taste of the readers who loved the book is from my own.Because in truth,i dont think the book is in my league.Not yet,anyway.For now the book remains an impenetratable book,though with beautifully written poems and songs.It's like a well-decorated iron wall,actually.You can never break through no matter how hard you try.Just admire,but dont try become part of it.

4)The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell & Dustin Thomason

One of the most atrocious books i have in my collection.I am ASHAMED that i bought this in the first place,because it sucked so very much.And i actually got further for this book than Sophie's World,can you believe it.I guess it was the boredom in camp at that time that drove me on in this long march of absolute dread.I dont know how i got through the pages,but i apparently did and i am still alive and kicking after all the trying.This book sort of,left this everlasting emotional scar because it represented the absolute horror,of what words can do to you.Utter disgust.

You'd think that what's written at the back of a book would be the basis of what the book would be all about.Say,if it tells you that a man is killed because he found out the secret about a book,you would think that this happens early in the book and that the plot is going to start building on from there.This is typical of a thriller,and the greatest of a thriller really depends on how unexpected the ending of the book is,how it differs so much from what the back of the book,the synopsis,actually tells you.

However,that is not the case for The Rule of Four.This atrocious book tells you the exact scenario i told you above,70% through the book!The person mentioned at the back,who is supposed to get killed for the secret,gets killed after 70% of the pages were flipped.Im not too sure if the writers were taking their time to kill of this character,but if i was there when they were typing the story out probably on their laptops,i wouldve smashed the computer to prevent any copies of that book ever flowing out to the general public.Hell,i might even encourage the public to read Hitler's Mein Kampf.

The book kept revolving around another book.This mysterious book that got people killed over the centuries because of...well,something.Some people praised that it has the shadow of The Da Vinci Code going on for it,but i must say that those people mustve been high on drugs when they typed those reviews.Because let's face it,this book was bad.Plain bad.I wouldnt even use it to start a fire in the middle of Antartica.I dont want any part of it to benefit me,not after it took about seventeen dollars out of my wallet.

5)Buying a Fishing Rod for My Grandfather by Gao Xing Jian

This book is right up there with The Rule of Four.The only difference,is that this book is the compilation of various short stories written by Gao Xing Jian,and the fact that i got through about...1/4 of the book and stopped reading it entirely.

The short stories didnt make any fishing sense.Dickens wouldve been as confused as a chicken reading it,because it made no sense whatsoever.I tried to draw lessons,meanings,morales from some of the stories,but couldnt.Here's a little summary of what happened in one of the stories,and i am not even exaggerating on just how vague,how mundane that story was.

1.Guy takes a swim in the sea.
2.Guy has cram,and couldnt swim anymore.
3.Guy floats.
4.Guy floats back to shore,happy to be alive.
5.Guy sees two guys and a girl pushing their bicycles,down the beach.
6.Boys decided to take a swim,girl stops them.
7.They didnt care,jumped in anyway.
8.Girl revealed to have a bandaged leg.
9.The end.

I guess,that is enough said about how BAD the book was for me.

6)Possession by A.S. Byatt

This book,single-handedly,changed my opinion about following the Times Top 100 Novels of All-Time as my reading list.I guess,there are just some books that are not going to be easy to stomach,and this is it.I am probably not going to follow the list of books on that list very closely from now onwards,and just judge according to my instincts.

The premise of this book is rather interesting,with twio professors from two Universities,finding letters written between two poets who were having an affair.Sounds rather interesting,but the meaning of the story was lost amongst the proses and the poems,the songs and the...well,some of the stories the poets wrote for each other,about each other.Sure,i knew that they were madly in love with each other,but the letters they wrote to each other showed it in,perhaps the most subtle way ever.They talked about their recent works,their fascination with each others' work,the weather,and how they saw meanings in some...poem.

Now,im not entirely bad with poems.The funny thing about the poems in this book was the fact that they were made up with easy words,sure.But they didnt make any sense,at all.Besides those,the book is littered with big words,almost used on purpose to confuse poor readers like me,over-shadowing the emotions in the characters,making them almost flat like paper,Two-Dimensional and boring.I didnt care about the characters,not even the two love birds.I found myself skipping poems and songs,just getting through the pages until finally,i decided to give it up for The Catcher in the Rye.

Good call,on my part.I must say.

Night

"...I remember that night, the most horrendous of my life:

'Eliezer, my son, come here... I want to tell you something... Only to you... Come, don't leave me alone... Eliezer...'

I heard his voice, grasped the meaning of his words and the tragic dimension of the moment, yet i did not move.

It had been his last wish to have me next to him in his agony, at the moment when his soul was tearing itself from his lacerated body - yet I did not let him have his wish.

I was afraid.

Afraid of blows.

That was why I remained deaf to his cries.

Instead of sacrificing my miserable life and rushing to his side, taking his hand, reassuring him, showing him that he was not abandoned, that I was near him, that i felt his sorrow, instead of all that, I remained flat on my back, asking God to make my father stop calling my name, to make him stop crying. So afraid was I to incur the wrath of the SS.

In fact, my father was no longer concious.

Yet his plaintive, harrowing voice went on piercing the silence and calling me, nobody but me.

'Well?' The SS had flown into a rage and was striking my father on the head: 'Be quiet, old man! Be quiet!'

My father no longer felt the club's blows; I did. And yet i did not react. I let the SS beat my father, i left him alone in the cluthes of death. Worse: I was angry at him for having been nousy, for having cried, for provoking the wrath of the SS.

'Eliezer! Eliezer! Come, don't leave me alone...'

BHis voice reached me from so far away, from so close. But i had no moved.

I shall never forgive myself.

Nor shall i ever forgive the world for having pushed me against the wall, for having turned me into a stranger, for having awakened in me the basest, most primitive instincts.

His last word had been my name. A summons. And i had not responded..."

--- Night by Elie Wiesel

Sidenotes

Let's just say that i havent got much to type about today.For some reason i think if a suicidal maniac were to read my blog right at this moment,he or she is going to up one level to a suicidal maniac cum lunatic and really,do it.Too much serious stuff going on here i guess,and in an effort to relief that atmosphere i have decided to make this little sidenote,thing.Besides,the colour of the blog is not helping either(Though i do not have the intentions to do so whatsoever).

Sidenote #1:

The sight of Sylvester Sim at Jurong Point as i was walking out of the toilet provoked me to a point,whereby i was on the verge of taking off my shoes and slamming his face between those soles.Because really,his face disgusts me with a flaming urge,this burning passion to unleash the demon inside of me.I think my fingers have a thing for assholes,they are naturally attracted to the necks of goons.

So there he was,leaning against the wall with his newly dyed hair(Pink),looking like a doper high on a injection.We made a brief eye contact,and he had that look.You know,like "Hey do you recognise me?" kind of look.I stared at him,from his pink hair to his toes,then back up to those atrocious hair again,and walked off.Pathetic worm.

Sidenote #2:

I think mental patients at hospitals should be allowed 100 dollars of allowance each month,to visit Kinokuniya or Borders to get some reading materials.I think of all the window shopping therapy out there,shopping for books is the most therapeutic of all.Really,the way your finger reaches out and pulls the book off the shelves,the way they feel in your hands as you walk towards the cashier,exhilerating.You dont even feel the emptying of your pockets,but the filling up of some forgotten gap deep in your soul.

I bought three books again yesterday,despite the readily available materials at hand.I had to do it,i thought to myself.The urge was unbearable.I wanted to get The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler initially,but i found out that it is a detective story that comes in a series.I hate books that come in a series,so i passed on that.Anyway,i bought the following,out of pure temptation.So sue me.

1)Falconer by John Cheever
2)The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead
3)The Moviegoer by Walker Percy

Sidenote #3:

Ahmad has good driving skills,i must say.I mean,for a beginner of course.I have a love/hate relationship with my father's driving,actually.He drives in a very smooth,sleek,relaxed way.That's good,but he often forgets the weight of his feet and applies too much weight,making the car sail down the expressway like a runaway train.But unlike so many drivers out there,he has a smooth stop at lights.He glides,and that's a really cool thing i got to learn the next time i get to drive a car.

Speaking of which,the bus driver yesterday while i was on my way home,was the worst driver i have ever met.Before he turned,waiting for cars to pass by,he would break a MILLION times,and the passengers kept moving forward and back,slamming our backs against the seats.I almost vomited,when i got off the bus.And as he drove away,i cursed aloud and kicked a cloud of sand up into the air.

Anyway,he drove down to my house today feeling hungry,for some reason.My sister had a tone full of pity when she heard about this,and asked how come he didnt have dinner at home,or at least somewhere near his place.Well,he missed the vender at the cafe in my estate,but they moved away.Which is a sad thing,replaced by a Vietnamese restraunt which is not entirely good.

Anyway,drove all the way down to Lynette's place to pick Corinna up from the birthday party they were having.When Lynette asked if i'd like a piece of cake,i didnt know that she was refering to a BIRTHDAY cake(Comon',her birthday's not even today).I jumped at the chance,because i was awfully hungry and Ahmad was desperate for more food.But upon hearing that there were eight other girls in her house,i jumped back into the car and we sped off without even a proper goodbye to Lynette and her cute dog,which was screaming at me for some reason(Im such a...DOG,kinda guy!).

Sidenote #4:

A couple of pictures i took with my phone,with effects added for some of them.


That black spot at the top left reminds me of the movie Independence Day.But really,it was just the sunlight reflecting off the window of the bus.


The world turned upside down.


"Mornie Utulie..."

Sidenote #5:

Allow me to introduce to you guys some of the witty comebacks that i've used over the week.

"...Of the ten billion sperms that swam through your father's penis,i cant believe you swam the fastest..."

[This sarcastic asshole over at the forums was arguing with me about religion and stuff.At the very end,after being conquered verbally,he gave up and said "Yeah yeah,whatever you say is right.You are always right"]

"...Are you done?Well,allow me to retort my dear.It's not that i am always right,it's just that you are always wrong..."

[A conversation i had with Mingyan at Kinokuniya.He is the cashier there,by the way]

Mingyan,"Come here often?"
Me,"Yeah,all the time."
Mingyan,"All the time?"
Me,"Yeah,pretty much."
Mingyan,"Well,i havent seen you around for a while."
Me,"I've been avoiding you,schmuck.Dont you read signs?"

[While Ahmad attempts to negotiate a sharp bend]

Corinna,"Look out for the bend.The curb has been extended,so that people cant turn in from here."
Me,"That's chicken shit,he can do it."
Ahmad,"Chicken shit,how would you know?"
Me,"If you can do it,it's chicken shit."

[Dad wanted the last few pieces of pork ribs in the soup,begging me to give it to him instead.Of course,he already ate half of the pork rib population,while the rest of the family had one each,then]

Dad,"Comon'!Just that one,it's so thin!All that is left is the bone!"
Me,"If that is the case,why eat the bone?"
Dad,"Just let me have it!"
Mom,"No,you cant."
Dad,"Okay,Weilien.Here's one more for you,the rest are mine."
Me,"Nah,i'm okay with just two."
Dad,"Does that mean i can have the rest?"
Me,"No."

My Favourite Gemini

That autumn leaves fall dry and sweet
Tells me everything is not broken
No everything is not broken
If everythings not fine...
If everythings not fine...

I know it takes only a couple of hundred steps from where i am now,to the bus stop.I know that it takes one bus from that bus stop to where you are right now.I know that it is a short walk from there onwards,to where you live,to where you are now in the dark,drenched in tears and blood.I know all these,because i know you too well and too little,all at the same time.Isnt it strange,isnt it odd?I think it is weird,that being the two-faced Gemini in nature,you always choose that same face for me.It's not that i dont like it,it's not that i prefer otherwise.But sometimes,just sometimes,when you are alone,when you need to be rid of that loneliness,that face you have on looks so much like a mask i feel like tearing it off.Because only that way,i feel that it is all worth it,to worry about you so much.You,my favourite Gemini in the world.

I havent got a driving license like you,i cant drive my way down to your place to tell you how easy it is for you to let it all go.Because it is easy,really really.I can,but im afraid that it might look awkward,afraid that when you come out of your place,i wouldnt have anything but another lame joke of mine to utter or say.I know you find them funny,i understand that they make you laugh.But sometimes,when the only way you can cheer a friend up is to tell dumb jokes,you feel,in so many ways,so useful in so little ways.It is so short-termed,you know?The way the joke goes through your head,processed,understood and then forgotten because the next round of tears started to roll.My efforts wasted,i feel useless,and both of us are in the same pit of melancholia all over again.

That nature rains on flames we made
Should tell you everything is not broken
No everything is not broken
If everythings not fine...
If everythings not fine...

Remember,melancholia?Wrapping itself around you in the disguise of a warm coat.But really,outside of this warm coat you are alone in the porch,with the door before you locked tight.Falling alseep in your coat,you feel this melancholy growing within,controlling your fingers to reach for the razor so sharp.A cut in your arms and a drop of blood.Dont do that again,dont hurt yourself.

More wasted funerals
In time,in time
If everything's not fine...
If everything's not fine...

Anyone,but it is not yourself to blame.Blame anyone,blame me,just blame anybody.For once,just once,right now,not yourself.Because you are so much better than who you think you are.You are always as good as you think you are and more,as strong as you think you are and so much more.You told me once to fear not of this seemingly warm coat,to share,to tell you the truth of this decieving coat of mine.Well guess what,you are not telling me.You are not speaking to me.That was your other speaking,the other half of the beautiful Gemini.So why cant the two meet,why cant the two blend.So for once,just this once,you can tell me how you really feel,and we can enjoy the view as this coat of melancholy slowly self-destructs in view.

You are not like that,not like that.And the day when two faces become one,when you are ready to dial my eight digits and talk over it,i shall remember you that way.The most true,the most beautiful way,my favourite Gemini.

'Cause everything is not broken
No everything is not broken
Everything will be fine...
Everything will be fine...

Anorexia

Or "Anorexia Nervosa",refers to (According to Dictionary.com),"Loss of appetite, especially as a result of disease".Simply speaking,you know those people you see in school or at your workplace,starving themselves during lunchbreaks or visiting the bathroom after every meal,sticking a pen or finger down their throats to puke whatever that ate out,those are the people with Anorexia.When you are never thin enough,when you are never skinny enough,when you are never beautiful enough.

I dont think we should blame the media for this,for the way youngsters are sticking pen down their throats like that.You dont see runway models or actresses waving signs that say "Skin and Bone is Cool!",or Paris Hilton's new single being "Deep Throat with a 2B Pencil"(Of course,her own single "Stars Are Blind" is equally atrocious.I have the tendency to add the line "So Shut Up Swine" in brackets afterwards).Besides,in Paris Hilton's case it wouldnt be a pencil,but a penis.The reason why i am mentioning that slut is of course,because i saw posters promoting her album all along Orchard today.Rows and rows of them hanging from posts outside of Wisma Atria,all the way down to the crossings before HMV.Yeah,it was a horrific sight.I think if one of those War of the Worlds alien ships erupted in the middle of Scotts Road,people wouldnt even noticed them.

Besides that,i saw them all.Hordes of them,filling the streets with themselves.Well,filling the streets really is an understatement.After all,there really isnt anything left to fill anything.Skin and bones,people suffering from anorexia everywhere.I bumped into a girl,and i thought i bumped into some life-sized standee or something.It felt weightless,almost skeletal,and i almost forgot to apologize.

Really,i dont see how being skin and bone is,in any way,beautiful.I remember back in my school days,one fine afternoon in the lecture theatre before a class started,a girl from another class was hollering to her friends about her fat she was.She wasnt fat,really.In fact,if she was borned about twenty years earlier,she wouldve been able to get a part in Michael Jackson's Thriller video.She was zombie like,with nothing but sticks sticking out of her uniform.The breasts didnt help either,hiding beneath her uniform,weeping for the pathetic state of the body.But still,she thought she was fat.Fat.Right.Perhaps she puked her brain out during one of her deep throats with a pen too.

I dont see how being THAT thin is in any way,beautiful."Models are like that!",people say.But i think it is all about proportions.I always say,that a person is only fat when he or she is out of proportions.You know,like when everything looks bloated and out of shape.Sure,Jonathan from my camo is overweight.But he is proportionate,and the names calling are just for the kick of it.

I think fat people are in general,happier than people with anorexia.While walking to the bus stop i saw a woman with her caucasian boyfriend.She was...well,big.Out of proportions,like i said.But she didnt care too much of the way her extra flesh were hanging out the sides of her tube.She doesnt try to hide it,or puke everything she just ate out.She is who she is,and at that moment i felt she was in so many ways,more beautiful than those skeletal beings i saw.

With their clothes hanging from their bony shoulders,like starved Rwanda kids.Their collar bones were like wings,threatening to take off when the wind blows.I saw their ribs,like ladders lining on either side of their chests,and legs thinner than my pinky.I swear,if i tried popping one of those arms,they are going to come off like Barbie Dolls'.Just...well,it was like a scene from a very bad nightmare.It was a sign,telling me that if i continue starving myself in camp and outfield i am going to end up like that.

So gulp,as much spit as possible ladies and gentlemen.Because this is real,zombies are roaming our world.The dawn of the dead,the land of the anorexic people.But fear not,i dont suppose they are going to feast on your flesh,or any meat,anytime soon.Just sharing plain o'oxygen,that's all.

Judy's Dress

"...'My God,' he said, 'look over there, see a dress?' He pointed out back. 'In the branch of that tree? A rag, yellow and black?'

I was able to see a thing like a flag, flapping high in the branches over a shed.

'The first girl ever drug me to bed wore that very same dress. I was about ten and she was probably less, and at the time a lay seemed like such a big deal I asked her if didnt she think, feel, we oughta announce it some way? Like, say, tell our folks, 'Mom, Judy and me got engaged today.' And I meant what i said, I was that big a fool; I thought if you made it, man, you were legally wed, right there on the spot, whether it was something you wanted or not, and that there wasnt any breaking the rule. But this little whore - at the most eight or nine - reached down and got her dress off the floor and said it was mine, said,' You can hang this up someplace, I'll go home in my drawers, announce it that way - they'll get the idea.' Jesus, nine years old, he said, reached over and pinched Candy's nose,' and knew a lot more than a good many pros.'

She bit his hand, laughing, and he studied the mark.

'So, anyhow, after she went home in her pants i waited till dark when i had the change to throw that damned dress out in the night - but you feel that wind? Caught the dress like a kite and whipped it around the house outta sight and the next morning, by God, it was hung up in that tree for the whole town, was how I figured then, to turn out and see.'

He sucked his hand, so woebegone that Candy laughed and gave it a kiss.

'So my colors were flown, and from that day to this it seemed I might as well live up to my name - dedicated lover - and it's the God's truth: that little nine-year-old kid out of my youth's the one who's to blame.'

The house drifted past. He yawned and winked,' Taught me how to love, bless her sweet ass.'

Then - as he was talking - a set of tail-lights going past lit up McMurphy's face, and the windshield reflected an expression that was allowed only because he figured it'd be too dark for anybody in the car to see, dreadfully tired and strained and frantic, like there wasnt enough time left for something he had to do...

While his relaxed, good-natured voice doled out his life for us to live, a rollicking past full of kid fun and drinking buddies and loving women and barroom battles over meager honors - for all of us to dream ourselves into..."

--- "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" by Ken Kesey

House of Escalators

The House of Escalators,
What a place of wonders!
Where everything leads to everywhere
And nowhere,above and under!

It appeared almost like an actualization of a Neil Gaiman novel.I had a book my mother bought for me in Taiwan a long time ago,about the way our weather changes and stuff.It's not just any sort of book,though.It had one of those 3-D things popping out from the book,but they were really just paper folded and cut in a very special way to make them stand out from the pages.I read one with dinosaurs if i am not mistakened,but the weather one struck me as the coolest,despite being avid fans of those prehistoric animals(I could name all the dinosaurs and had action figures of all of them.I went crazy in the cinema watching Jurassic Park and worshipped Spielberg).

Anyway,my point is that my dream formed before my eyes like one of those pop-up books,the way the images stood out and formed in the void of my head,as i drifted into that strange and familiar world between the two extremities of consciousness.It was Monday night,if i am not wrong.Or was it during one of those forgotten naps in the afternoons,while the rest of the camp drifted off into their own quiet dreamworld,and the sun minded its own business in the sky,baking the rest of the world into a scorching crust of red and orange.

Strange and dreamy,though highly unlikely,i was back in the same place again.The House of Escalators,a name i recently tagged the place with that name.I dont think it officially has a real name,i never entered the mall from the front gate,but im sure that it's probably going to be whatever i want to call it.In this mall,though it sort of runs on its own accord,i am the boss around here.I make the decisions as to what goes where and who says what.After all,it all happened in my mind,right?

A little history about the House of Escalator first.It all started out when i was young,the first time i visited the mall.It started out as a single storey mall,with a walkway right down the centre of it like a sort of spine.The shops on either side of this walkway,and dominated,for some reason,by Hong Kong celebrities.I remember strolling down the walkway as a child,just admiring these celebrities,doing the most daily things,even argue with one another and fighting.

That was one of my early memories of the House of Escalator.And as the years went by,the development of the mall changed as well.Essentially it is still a shopping mall,but like all shopping malls it ungraded to suit the daily needs of the dreamer,like the need of shoppers.It developed into a multi-storey shopping mall,and now there were shops everywhere.Sadly,i dont exactly remember what they sell in those shops,but i do remember the general layout of the place.There was a wide courtyard,indoors,and from the four sides of the courtyard rose four spiralling stairecases up the storeys of the mall,leading to the different levels.They were made from poor tiles,like the ones from old malls you find on Bridge Road in Singapore.There was a dream once,with me running up and down these stairecases,looking for something...i dont quite remember but,that's how dreams are i guess.

Then it upgraded once more,to a multi-storey mall with a hell lot of escalators leading everywhere,and it has been staying this way for a long time.I remember one one side of the mall,there was a train that led to the other end of this seemingly endless mall.It was one of those bullet trains,going at light speed down a track,feeling nothing while inside.Then at the end of the station you are led to a elevator instead,taking you to the hotel in the mall,rising up to more than a hundred storeys.The escalators on the other hand,led everywhere.One of them led downstairs to a Kinokuniya,while another up to Borders.There are restaurants everywhere,and others selling accessories and stuff like that.Like an ordinary mall,but with a hell lot of escalators leading to everywhere and nowhere.

It was there,on one of the numerous sleeping opportunities that i got,did i dream of her again.I dont know why,but for some reason after i woke up,i saw it as a sort of sign that this is it,this is as good as it gets.This is the last goodbye,the final wave of farewell as you sail into the sunset(To Australia?Hahaha).The restaurant was sort of like a cross between Swensen's and Sketcher's,and we were sitting together talking about something i dont quite remember.

We left the place,and went up escalators upon escalators,still laughing over a joke we made about a person's name,or something like that.I dont quite remember,but i remember us going up these stairecases,one of the only few left standing in the mall.They were solid,marble white,leading up to a giant clock that was ticking down to something.The face of the clock,like the marble below of feet,was made of marble as well,with the hands thin and sharpened at the end,glossy black and almost threatening.It was spinning rapidly,counting down to something we were both unaware of.It was one of those old clocks,and the pendulum swung below,and the mechanisms inside worked its way,moving the hands around and around,always getting nearer to zero.

The clock struck a time,and there was a terrible clash.The mechanisms started screaming with metallic shoutings,and the hands finally stopped moving.You left the place,away from the clock and away from me.Racing down the corridors and up the escalators,through the other shops that were selling jewellry and stuff,then down another set of escalators to the other side of the old courtyard,suddenly telling me that you wanted to head down to McDonald's.

The rest of the dream was a blur,and i remember waking up soon after.I dont think i was exactly glad to have dreamnt of you then.Perhaps the dream was a little too abstract,almost too vague for me to appreciate.But for some reason,i knew that it meant something,like the way Mr. Eko saw something in his dreams in the latest episode of LOST i showed my mother over youtube.

Like everything else,you were lost in the House of Escalators.I dont think i ever found what i was looking for in that maze of mine.It was like a mice in a wooden maze,but without an actual cheese to look for.Im always looking for something in the House of Escalator,and i guess this time,the fact that what i found ran away from me,made it a little different,more unique from the other dreams that i have had of that place.

The House of Escalators,
What a place of wonders!
Where everything leads to everywhere
And nowhere,above and under!

Murderer of Candaules

"...This Candaules had become passionately in love with his own wife; and having become so, he deemed that his wife was fairer by far than all other women. To Gyges, the son of Daskylus (for he of all his spearmen was the most pleasing to him), he used to describe the beauty of his wife, praising it above all measure.

He said to Gyges: 'Gyges, I think that you do not believe me when I tell you of the beauty of my wife, for it happens that men's ears are less apt of belief than their eyes. Contrive therefore means by which you may look upon her naked.'

'I believe indeed that she is of all women the fairest and I entreat you not to ask of me that which it is not lawful of me to do.' But the King answered him thus: 'Be of good courage, Gyges, and have no fear, either of me, that I am saying rhse words to try you, or of my wife, lest any harm may happen to you from her. For I will contrive it so from the first that she shall not perceive that she has been seen by you.'

'I will place you in the room where we sleep, behind the open door; and after I have gone in, my wife will also come to lie down. Now there is a seat near the entrance of the room and on this she lays her garments as she takes them off one by one and so you will be able to gaze at her at full leisure.'

The next day the wife calls in Gyges ad gives him two choices.

'There are now two ways open to you, and I will give you the choice which of the two you will prefer to take. Either you must slay Candaules and possess both me and the Kingdom of Lydia, or you must yourself here on the spot be slain, so that you mayest not in future, by obeying Candaules in all things, see that which you should not. Either he must die who formed this design, or you who have looked upon me naked.'..."

--- from "The Histories" by Herodotus

Vultures

Some of us,
We're hardly ever here
The rest of us,
We're born to disappear
How do I stop myself from
Being just a number
How will I hold my head
To keep from going under

I think the worst kind of job your father can have is to be a signed-on military man.That is to say,his job is with the country,his time is in camps,and if you do not wake up at the given timings you might just end up sprawled on the floor,legs wide apart and counting all the way from one to a certain number between twenty to infinity,depending on your father's wishes.

Okay,perhaps it is not too bad.I know a couple of people whose fathers are military people.But i guess the worst thing for you,especially if you are a guy,is that when you are in the service yourself,and one night your dad decides to bring you to a gathering with his friends,or rather coleagues,you know that you are probably going to meet a bunch of other suicidal signed-on nutcases,who chose to live a life in the military and not anything else in the brave new world.Whatever were they thinking,you might ask yourself,as you quietly sip your orange juice in the dark shadows of the restaurant,with other men sitting around you talking about the latest full troop exercise that happened in their camps and stuff like that.Colonels,Lieutenant Colonels,or even some Generals here and there.Crabs and stars,you name it.All sitting around you and you have your fingers crossed,praying hard that your father wont mention the fact that you were just enlisted,making you the smallest fry at the table and possibly the plankton in the restaurant.Because,let's face it,when you are a recruit or a private,you are the smallest organism in the society.The biggest shot,is not the biggest general with the most stars.But,take this: Civilian.

Anyway,so there you are sitting at your table,and suddenly out of nowhere your lunatic military father puts a hand on your shoulders,icy cold and unfriendly,you know you are IN for it.He introduces you to the other fellow lunatics,and you wonder if you were committed to a lunatic asylum without your knowledge one peaceful night.The rest of the suicidal maniacs stare at you,like vultures waiting for a dead carcass to be stripped,then enjoy the leftovers later on.

Let's say,that all of the above is happening right now.And your father introduces you to one of the lunatics,and he so happens to be MY current CO,Mr. DHC.Of course,i dont think i should reveal his real name here,but "DHC" really stands for "Duty","Honor" and "Country",a motto i learned from the ridiculous Ninja Company.

How did they find me here
What do they want from me
All of these vultures hiding
Right outside my door
I hear them whisperin
They're tryin to ride it out
Cause they've never gone this long
Without a kill before

If you are meeting my CO,or rather Mr. DHC for the first time,you are going to see those three words right across his forehead.It is not difficult to guess that this man lives and breathes these three words in his life.He probably chants those words in his puny mind while he eats,sleeps,baths and masturbates.He is the typical sort of military man,with little more than guns and ammos,and duty and responsibility,and country and nation in his head.His favourite colour is red and white,and his favourite thing in the sky are the moon and the stars.Five stars,to be exact,and a crescent moon to go with that.

To further prove that he is the sort of man,who is probably the actualization of those three words,we can take a look into the car he drives to camp.I dont think that car belongs to him,but inside that car,if you are going to rate this person by the number of accessories he have,is going to be a pathetic car.He has a sunglasses on top of the panels,and then a handphone earpiece hanging from the rearview mirror.And that's it,nothing more than those.Just two things,and you can tell that this man is as simple as the brains of all military signed-on personnels: Simple.

Now,why am i giving a summary of this man,Mr. DHC for?Well,let's just say i just returned from one of the worst outfields,ever.I am not just saying this because it is human nature to complain that the latest is always the worst,trying to brag about how bad your week was,or how tough you are just because you survived those military bullshit they threw on your by the buckets.No,i am not that kind of person.This outfield lasted for merely one night,less than a day,and i went through pure HELL with that outfield alone,and hell is not filled with raging fire and little demons with pointy horns and pitchforks,poking at your rear and screaming with devilish laughter.Hell,in fact,is quite dark.Very,dark.

It started at 7pm,the moment we leaped off that tonner.Two guys from our section made themselves absent from the outfield,and thus the rest of us had to carry their load.QinYou ended up carrying the manpack set(Something like a giant telephone),and i had to carry five hundred MG rounds for Henry-fucking-pointy-tits-Hoe.The usual load,by the way,is a little more than 250 rounds,by the way.Not to mention the bloody rations i stuffed inside and the MG barrel,which is about the weight of a M16,perhaps lighter by a tad bit.

It was dreadfully heavy,and i was swearing to Nicholas that by the end of this outfield i am bound to be 5cm shorter.And of course,besides swearing to my mother about that,i plainly swore.You know,vulgarities.I couldnt help it,as the sky grew darker and the number of people in the platoon growing smaller.Weaklings,you might call them.But the way Mr. KTM decided to fall out ten fucking minutes into the outfield was just plain ridiculous.Have some balls,your moon-surFACED man.You are 23 years old,and you cannot even spell words like "Expensive".Get a grip on yourself,and if you can with your free hand,grab on to your balls.Because i am about to rip those eyeballs out and stuff them down your pants,so you can see me pluck your balls out and bury them ten feet under and feed the hole with cement.Yeah,steal my iPod and handphone to get some quick cash mofo?Witless worm.

QinYou fell out,leaving Shi Wei to handle his manpack set.Then See Hwee fell out,followed by Ah Chang,complaining about sharp pain and the likes.And those,not even halfway through the nine hour dismounted mission into the deep of the night.

By midnight,i was still carrying MY load and by myself.Terence helped along the way,but that lasted for about twenty minutes and i was given back the bloody load.At least i carried everything by myself all the way till the end,and thanks to Jonathan at least HE bothered to help me out with the clearing of the rounds by spraying the enemy with those blanks like they were flies or roaches.

In the dark,everything merges somehow.I think i have a new phobia: Darkness.I think people are afraid of the dark because of what they think might lurk inside them.But not for me.That night,while i was out in the dark,amongst trees that joined at the top to form some kind of natural ceiling,even the moonlight was blocked out.It got darker and darker,and the shadows before my eyes swirled into a dance of death.I was hallucinating,literally as i looked into the dark,imagining invisible branches and leaves,or sometimes soldiers squatting on the floor just waiting for things to happen.I admit,i was groaning with both pain and fear then,not because of the possibility of spirits and ghosts,but rather the feeling of being out of control.I hated that feeling,how i couldnt find the proper footing,and getting my way through those God damned roots.I collapsed at the end,with the skin on my left shoulder torn off by the strap of the bag,and bruises on my thighs i found out about soon after.

Wheels up
I got to leave this evening
Can't seem to shake these vultures
Off of my trail
Power is made, by power being taken
So I keep on running
To protect my situation

It was a terrifying experience for me,in the dark and out of control.The exhaustion that found its way up my spine was unbearable.The mission ended at 3am,and we didnt catch any sleep all the way till 7am.Sure,no swamp or snakes were involved this time,but i think if i was given a vote on things to go through,swamps or hell in the dark,i wouldve voted for swamps.Period.

So,the relation to Mr. DHC is this.I felt that he was playing us like chess pieces.We just had our ATEC Stage 1,and we obtained a REDCON 1 for that motherfucker,and the best Armour Unit EVER,the highest scoring one that is.For the ill-informed,ATEC is like the A levels for the Armour Regiments.And Redcon 1 really is the best result you can get.We got that result for him,and all we got was a pathetic half day off.To top that off,we went through hell on Tuesday night and Wednesday morning,out in the field and in the dark cursing our heads off with the most brilliant display of vulgarities i have ever heard."This is too much..." people mumbled.Too much,indeed.

But i am not going to be disheartened by the existence of that asshole.Not just because i will be out of that accused camp in a little more than a hundred days,but because of the plain fact that i am not going to lower my head to this bloody psycho,this chess player,this vulture,who probably sat in the comfort of a tentage,watching the monitor as little white dots moved through our training area.I hope you enjoyed that experience,you dirty twat.And at the end of this i am going to be the one with the sniper rifle,sniping you off the skies and making sure that i will be the one feasting upon your flesh.

Down to the wire
I wanted water but
I'll walk through the fire
If this is what it takes
To take me even higher
Then I'll come through
Like I do
When the world keeps
Testing me, testing me

Because i am in so many ways,better than you.So what are you going to do about that,dear CO?What you going to do?I am the man,and you are vulture.And at the end of the day men prevails,and you are no more than a feather duster.I know it sucks to be you but,C'est La Vie.Boo-Fucking-Hoo.