For what its worth - Henry Budd on cutting lunch / Tuesday, September 15, 2009
"I needed to spice things up a bit. Spice it up in a way that your chilli basil stir fry just can't."
Dear lunchtime Thai takeaway,
I've been meaning to tell you this for some time but I don't know where to begin, so I will just come out with it: I've been seeing other people.
There, I've said it.
I'm sorry, but our relationship has lost its spark. It's true.
When our romance began I couldn't stop thinking about you.
Those hot curries and succulent stir fries had me sneaking out of work as soon as I could get away each day and into your welcoming arms.
When I left I couldn't get you out of my mind.
I told all my friends bout how special you were.
Then you became friends with my friends, which makes this break-up all the more difficult.
But our daily lunchtime dalliances have become few and far between. Sure, there's still the odd lunchtime booty call but I'm left emotionally hollow afterwards.
You never want to talk about things afterwards, its just all about the money.
But I'm not looking to blame anyone.
If anything, its not you, its me.
I felt stuck in a rut and now I'm looking for something else.
I needed to spice things up a bit. Spice it up in a way that your chilli basil stir-fry just can't.
I'm the same every time with you - massaman, stir-fry, or noodles. Sure there's the option of chicken, beef or seafood, but even that's getting old now.
And I've had better. That's right, better.
Your pad thai is all noddles, no chicken. I know when you're going through the motions - faking it - call it what you want.
You're not going to like hearing this, but now that I've started I have to tell you everything - I've been a bit of a man-whore lately.
It started with just a steak at the pub on a Friday.
Yes I was drinking, but that's no excuse.
I can't explain why I did it, but I did and now I'm not sure I feel the same way about you.
Then that good-looking Vietnamnese pho shop with the makeover caught my eye and lured me with the sweet perfume of mi goreng.
Then it was that trendy fish and chip shop I dated a couple of times before I met you.
I'd forgotten why I liked it so much.
I even dated your neighbour the sushi shop a couple of times before stooping even lower these past few weeks with the occasional trip for fried chicken. I even tried the Golden Arches when it tarted itself up and tried to go classy. Angus burger, who could resist?
I know you'll be angry, but please, don't act like you havn't being giving it to everybody else. You're hardly on the moral high ground here.
I'm sorry things had to end this way and I hope we can be friends.
Your former lunchtime flame,
Henry.
PS: Oh, and to my old coffee shop I went steady with for 2 years, I'm getting my fix from the cafe around the corner now.
Sorry, but you let yourself go. This time it's not me, it's you.
-----
LOL, got it from the mx today. It was hilarious. Thought I'd share it with you. XD
Labels: humour, literature
/because of my high tolerance.
8:54:00 PM
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農夫啲歌 makes me smile XD / Thursday, June 18, 2009
第一次擘大眼睇個世界嗰時
Daddy媽咪話做人唔容易
第一次學行跌左唔止一次
學123去到學ABC
啲考試每次都臨急至溫書
啲同學每個都曾經暗戀Missy
嗰時仲未知粒粒皆辛苦係一回乜嘢事
啲功課一係就抄一係唔交
Miss一係就鬧一係唔教
讀書為左識字為左沙紙定係為左我老媽子
嗰晚 放榜前一晚 三點三十分都未訓
聽日有三分定係有十分
淨係知道有不同嘅學歷 有不同嘅人生 諗
攬住個枕頭 諗
揸住呢個分數 點樣面對老豆
即刻捐入被竇 冚 大被冚過頭
原來諗得多過頭
十九轉眼變左廿九
髮線開始向後 準備三十出頭
浮浮沉沉嚟冇份工做得長久
尋尋覓覓嘅女朋友終於分手
好多新朋友 喺街頭重遇舊朋友 唔知點樣問候
收到新朋友嘅喜訊
轉個頭 收到舊朋友嘅死訊
人生無常從來唔係幾信
一啖一啖酒灌落心頭
聽朝又八點九
一步一步走嘅一個一個年頭
為左走去盡頭
一粒一粒都係辛苦嘅 嗰日終於接受
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幾千里長路, 天天有難度...
農夫啲歌 makes me smile XDLabels: humour, literature, school, thoughts
/because of my high tolerance.
9:15:00 PM
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The Time Traveller's Wife / Sunday, March 29, 2009
Yesterday, I finally put down a marvellous book I've been lugging around with me everywhere from uni, to basketball, to church, and of course the mundanes of my room. "The Time Traveller's Wife" is an excellent read, and explores the concept of space-time in an unexpected but at the same time hidden-in-our-subconscious-worry manner.
Basically, imagine yourself as a time traveller, where you're zipped into your own past and future (mainly the past) constantly and it is completely out of your control. Wherever you land, you can't take anything with you, so you always end up stark naked in a surrounding you don't know WHERE or WHEN. Henry DeTramble, as the protagonist, knows all too well how that feels. He often has to turn to petty crime to feed and clothe himself when he travels, and must run from people, thugs, or the police. Eventually Henry returns to his present time, bringing only the bodily injuries he's suffered back with him. Sometimes he travels back in time and visits an earlier version of himself.
Having the background of the story, it then builds the foreground of the magical fairytale love story between the protagonist time traveller Henry DeTramble and the endearing Clare Abshire.
The novel raises the issue of 'fate' and makes you question the power of choice you actually have if the future already has happened. "If you could go back in time and change any event, would you?" is a question I believe many of us have asked or have been asked before. The book questions the very question itself, and asserts that even if you go back in time, you can't do anything about it, because if you could, you would've already done.
The book will make you laugh, make you think, make you cry and make you want to believe. As expected from Niffenegger, its a wonderful effusion of strong emotions and explores the all too real complexities of real modern life with the wonders, joys and immortalities of youth. It encompasses our fears and resolutions and what we'd always put off as 'things for later' or 'the future' into one cookie, where 'the future is the past, and the past, the future'.
Highly recommend this book for a read and I believe everybody will have something to take home from this science-fiction but not novel. Enjoy the chronologically askew sequence of events and understand the perspectives from the one always chrono-leaving and the one who's always left behind.
There's a twist at the end, but I won't say what it is. Suffice to say that when you start thinking the book gets predictable, Niffenegger decides to screw with you by throwing another bone at you.
One last question for you to ponder about: "What would you do if you knew the time of your death?"
Labels: books, literature
/because of my high tolerance.
11:16:00 AM
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Obama's presidency speech / Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Now THIS is an epic speech...
----
If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.
It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.
It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled — Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of red states and blue states; we are, and always will be, the United States of America.
It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.
It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.
I just received a very gracious call from Sen. McCain. He fought long and hard in this campaign, and he's fought even longer and harder for the country he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him and Gov. Palin for all they have achieved, and I look forward to working with them to renew this nation's promise in the months ahead.
I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on that train home to Delaware, the vice-president-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.
I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last 16 years, the rock of our family and the love of my life, our nation's next first lady, Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the White House. And while she's no longer with us, I know my grandmother is watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight, and know that my debt to them is beyond measure.
To my campaign manager, David Plouffe; my chief strategist, David Axelrod; and the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics — you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you've sacrificed to get it done.
But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to — it belongs to you.
I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn't start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington — it began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston.
It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give $5 and $10 and $20 to this cause. It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation's apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep; from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on the doors of perfect strangers; from the millions of Americans who volunteered and organized, and proved that more than two centuries later, a government of the people, by the people and for the people has not perished from this earth. This is your victory.
I know you didn't do this just to win an election, and I know you didn't do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime — two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century. Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us. There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after their children fall asleep and wonder how they'll make the mortgage, or pay their doctor's bills, or save enough for college. There is new energy to harness and new jobs to be created; new schools to build and threats to meet and alliances to repair.
The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year, or even one term, but America — I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you: We as a people will get there.
There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make as president, and we know that government can't solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And, above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it's been done in America for 221 years — block by block, brick by brick, callused hand by callused hand.
What began 21 months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek — it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.
So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other. Let us remember that if this financial crisis taught us anything, it's that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers. In this country, we rise or fall as one nation — as one people.
Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House — a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress.
As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, "We are not enemies, but friends... Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection." And, to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your president, too.
And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world — our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down: We will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security: We support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright: Tonight, we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope.
For that is the true genius of America — that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.
This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election, except for one thing: Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.
She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons — because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.
And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America — the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes, we can.
At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes, we can.
When there was despair in the Dust Bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes, we can.
When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes, we can.
She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that "We Shall Overcome." Yes, we can.
A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes, we can.
America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves: If our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?
This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time — to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can.
Thank you, God bless you, and may God bless the United States of America.
------
Also, don't feel like studying, so am here. Doing 2 weeks in a day, everyday. I deserve a break. =) Should be on target if i keep this up until the day of my 1st exam!
URSH!
Labels: literature
/because of my high tolerance.
11:06:00 PM
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LG Viewty / Friday, July 25, 2008
So I'm back at uni again. Been back for 2 weeks now. And slowly counting it down...12 more weeks, just 12 more weeks to go...
And it aint all bad. Exam marks came back, and I reckon they were deserving. Wish they were just a lil higher though. Regardless, it doesn't matter. It all depends on 2nd semester anyway...that's worth the muda-fookin 65%
Alot of people are spending their last week of holidays going out now; and although I cannot join you guys, I still wish you guys have fun...spending what's left of your cash. I know I've already gone broke during mine, and mine were half the length of yours.
Oh, and of course, saying happy birthdays' to Yi for turning 19 and Bonnie on turning 18 (on the 28th I know, but looking at my erratic posts, probably won't post in time)
My new timetable looks exactly the same as the old one, except now my clinical day is now moved to Thursday at 9am. Seriously, I hate my clinical doctor tutor. He sucks ass. Major ass. Last semester I think we had subs show up more than he ever did. And on the times he does show up, he turns up at least 1/2 hr late. To add to that, he keeps moving our times. From Tuesdays at 2pm (when he rocks up at 2:30pm) to Tuesdays at 2:30pm (where he shows up at 3pm) then to Thursdays at 10am (where he didn't even show) and now to Thursdays at 9am (yet to know if he'll turn up on time, but his track record isn't good). I have a half a mind to start a complaint, because at this rate, I'm going to fail my 2nd semester practicals. I cannot afford to have that happen. And he gives crappy feedback. Um...oh, and yeah! He's probably moving us around just to fill in his clinical rounds! Other doctors keep calling him and asking him where he is and he just answers, "I'm with my students at the moment..." Lame, lazy doctor.
On the bright side I can now do gastro-intestinal examinations, albeit shoddily. Stethoscope was also used for the 1st time. W00t~
And I also got myself a new phone. I'm now officially with '3' on the $29 cap for the LG U990, otherwise known as the LG Viewty.
Really sexy...Having barely used it for 2 days, I can't really comment on it without considerable bias. Or shouts of enthusiam detailing just how sexy it is, how the touch-screen functionality is just really really cool, or just how phat the screen is, or the complete slickness of the 5 megapixel camera. I realise that going to uni now kind of means I should have outgrown that high-school fervent behaviour of whipping out the new phone and telling everybody, so I can only restrict myself to my blog here. =) Regardless, I'm very happy.
Here letting a holler that my new number is 0430 352 100. Store this if you're with 3. Otherwise, my existing number 0405 840 960 for any people with Optus.
There were other things that I wanted to say, but kinda want to do some tute homework now, so I shall post some other time.
OH OH OH! I remember something I have to post!
I've been reading Amy Tan lately (yes, the author of titles such as 'Joy Luck Club' and 'The Kitchen God's Wife') and having chanced upon this gem of a book titled 'The opposite of fate'. This book can be called her own autobiography of sorts, except its written as a jumbled series of memories in the form of entries, ranging from her own writing competition entries as an 8 year old to her own frustrated writing/thinking processes as a modern writer.
Extremely insightful and full of facts of lifeI found tears welling in the confines of my eyes near 3 times at various sections of the book, although I'm sure its because of how well any Asian-Australian can relate to her own woes growing up as a child of two cultures. I recommend it as a must-read.
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Now playing:
Fushigi Yugi - Itooshi hito no tameni (opening)Labels: birthdays, blog, celebrations, exams, life, literature
/because of my high tolerance.
8:23:00 PM
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Pathology in the Hundred Acre Wood: a neurodevelopmental perspective on A.A. Milne / Saturday, April 19, 2008
Abstract
Somewhere at the top of the Hundred Acre Wood a little boy and his bear play. On the surface it is an innocent world, but on closer examination by our group of experts we find a forest where neurodevelopmental and psychosocial problems go unrecognized and untreated.
On the surface it is an innocent world: Christopher Robin, living
in a beautiful forest surrounded by his loyal animal friends.
Generations of readers of A.A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh stories
have enjoyed these seemingly benign tales.
1,2 However, perspectives
change with time, and it is clear to our group of modern neurodevelopmentalists
that these are in fact stories of Seriously Troubled Individuals,
many of whom meet DSM-IV
3 criteria for significant disorders
. We have done an exhaustive review of the works of
A.A. Milne and offer our conclusions about the inhabitants of
the Hundred Acre Wood in hopes that our observations will help
the medical community understand that there is a Dark Underside
to this world.
We begin with Pooh. This unfortunate bear embodies the concept
of comorbidity. Most striking is his Attention Deficit Hyperactivity
Disorder (ADHD), inattentive subtype. As clinicians, we had
some debate about whether Pooh might also demonstrate significant
impulsivity, as witnessed, for example, by his poorly thought
out attempt to get honey by disguising himself as a rain cloud.
We concluded, however, that this reflected more on his comorbid
cognitive impairment, further aggravated by an obsessive fixation
on honey. The latter, of course, has also contributed to his
significant obesity. Pooh's perseveration on food and his repetitive
counting behaviours raise the diagnostic possibility of Obsessive
Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Given his coexisting ADHD and OCD,
we question whether Pooh may over time present with Tourette's
syndrome. Pooh is also clearly described as having Very Little
Brain. We could not confidently diagnose microcephaly, however,
as we do not know whether standards exist for the head circumference
of the brown bear. The cause of Pooh's poor brain growth may
be found in the stories themselves. Early on we see Pooh being
dragged downstairs bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head.
Could his later cognitive struggles be the result of a type
of Shaken Bear Syndrome?
Pooh needs intervention. We feel drugs are in order. We cannot but wonder how much richer Pooh's life might be were he to have a trial of low-dose stimulant medication. With the right supports, including methylphenidate, Pooh might be fitter and more functional and perhaps produce (and remember) more poems.
I take a PILL-tiddley pom It keeps me STILL-tiddley pom, It keeps me STILL-tiddley pom Not fiddling.
And what of little Piglet? Poor, anxious, blushing, flustered little Piglet. He clearly suffers from a Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Had he been appropriately assessed and his condition diagnosed when he was young, he might have been placed on an antipanic agent, such as paroxetine, and been saved from the emotional trauma he experienced while attempting to trap heffalumps.
Pooh and Piglet are at risk for additional self-esteem injury because of the chronic dysthymia of their neighbour, Eeyore. What a sad life that donkey lives. We do not have sufficient history to diagnose this as an inherited, endogenous depression or to know whether some early trauma contributed to his chronic negativism, low energy and anhe(haw)donia. Eeyore would benefit greatly from an antidepressant, perhaps combined with individual therapy. Maybe with a little fluoxetine, Eeyore might see the humour in the whole tail-losing episode. Even if a patch of St. John's wort grew near his thistles, the forest could ring with a braying laugh.
Our neurodevelopmental group agrees about poor Owl: obviously bright, but dyslexic. His poignant attempts to cover up for his phonological deficits are similar to what we see day in and day out in others so afflicted. If only his condition had been identified early and he received more intensive support!
We especially worry about baby Roo. It is not his impulsivity or hyperactivity that concerns us, as we feel that those are probably age appropriate. We worry about the environment in which he is developing. Roo is growing up in a single-parent household, which puts him at high risk for Poorer Outcome. We predict we will someday see a delinquent, jaded, adolescent Roo hanging out late at night at the top of the forest, the ground littered with broken bottles of extract of malt and the butts of smoked thistles. We think that this will be Roo's reality, in part because of a second issue. Roo's closest friend is Tigger, who is not a good Role Model. Peer influences strongly affect outcome.
We acknowledge that Tigger is gregarious and affectionate, but he has a recurrent pattern of risk-taking behaviours. Look, for example, at his impulsive sampling of unknown substances when he first comes to the Hundred Acre Wood. With the mildest of provocation he tries honey, haycorns and even thistles. Tigger has no knowledge of the potential outcome of his experimentation. Later we find him climbing tall trees and acting in a way that can only be described as socially intrusive. He leads Roo into danger. Our clinical group has had its own debate about what the best medication might be for Tigger. Some of us have argued that his behaviours, occurring in a context of obvious hyperactivity and impulsivity, would suggest the need for a stimulant medication. Others have wondered whether clonidine might be helpful, or perhaps a combination of the two. Unfortunately we could not answer the question as scientifically as we would have liked because we could find only human studies in the literature.
Even if we were able to help Tigger, we would still have the problem of Roo's growing up with a single parent. Kanga is noted to be somewhat overprotective. Could her possessiveness of Roo relate to a previous run-in with social services? And where will Kanga be in the future? It is highly likely that she will end up older, blowsier, struggling to look after several joeys conceived in casual relationships with different fathers, stuck at a dead end with inadequate financial resources. But perhaps we are being too gloomy. Kanga may prove to be one of those exceptional single mothers who show a natural resilience — an ability, if we may say so, to bounce back. Maybe Kanga will pass her high school equivalency test, earn a university degree and maybe even get an MBA. Perhaps some day Kanga will buy the Hundred Acre Wood and develop it into a gated community of $500 000 homes. But that is not likely to happen, particularly in a social context that does not appear to value education and provides no strong female leadership.
What leadership there is in the Hundred Acre Wood is simply that offered by one small boy, Christopher Robin. Our group believes that Christopher Robin has not exhibited any diagnosable condition as yet, but we are concerned about several issues. There is the obvious problem of a complete absence of parental supervision, not to mention the fact that this child is spending his time talking to animals. We also noted in the stories early signs of difficulty with academics and felt that E.H. Shepard's illustrations suggest possible future gender identity issues for this child. The more psychoanalytical member in our group indicated that there could be some Freudian meaning to his peculiar naming of his bear as Winnie-the-Pooh.
Finally, we turn to Rabbit. We note his tendency to be extraordinarily self-important and his odd belief system that he has a great many relations (many of other species!) and friends. He seems to have an overriding need to organize others, often against their will, into new groupings, with himself always at the top of the reporting structure. We believe that he has missed his calling, as he clearly belongs in senior-level hospital administration.
Somewhere at the top of the forest a little boy and his bear
play. Sadly, the forest is not, in fact, a place of enchantment,
but rather one of disenchantment, where neurodevelopmental and
psychosocial problems go unrecognized and untreated. It is unfortunate
that an Expotition was never Organdized to a Child Development
Clinic.
--
Original link: http://www.ecmaj.com/cgi/content/full/163/12/1557
Labels: humour, literature, medicine
/because of my high tolerance.
8:55:00 PM
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Drifting / Saturday, January 26, 2008
DriftersOur friendship began on shaky grounds
We forged a bond through mutual respect
and similarities that prove unfounded
So there is no wonder in the reasons of our drift
From where you once stood and where I am still standing
We shared good times together
We shouldered out the bad
And never once did I consider that things would be different
I guess I'm sorry I was so naive
That I was so gullible and believed.
So when you slowly melted from my fingertips
I slowly died within.
A new start, A new beginning
The echo of a life once lived and dead
Long times have passed
And I had told you all that I could
But still...
Things were different.
You were never the same again
Not the 'you' I knew, nor the 'me' that you knew.
You'd say it was inevitable, I'd say it's a pity
To the end, there is only one thing I can silently tell you:
Thanks. Thanks for drifting.
Thanks for making me the drifter I am today.
Never to belong, only to exist
as the shadow that needs to be filled.
I close my eyes...
and sigh.
Labels: emotions, literature, thoughts
/because of my high tolerance.
7:59:00 PM
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FRIENDSthere are some who love unconditionally
there are some who love partially
there are some who dont love at all
there are some who think of you first
there are some who think of you second
there are some who dont think of you at all
there are some who never remember your wrongs
there are some who remember some wrongs
there are some who remember all your wrongs
there are some who are always there
there are some who might be there
there are some who are never there
there are some who never leave your side
there are some who might leave your side
there are some who were never by your side
there are some who never take you for granted
there are some who might take you for granted
there are some who always take you for granted
there are some who remain at a distance
there are some who remain further still
there are some who cannot be seen
there are some time cannot erase
there are some that erase with time
there are some that never last for time
which one are you?
(thankyou S)Labels: literature, thoughts
/because of my high tolerance.
7:58:00 PM
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MASKSin the wonderful masquerade we call life
everyone wears a mask to hide their true identity
only the ones who are true to you can see beyond it
and only the ones who are not will believe in it
the mask of life weaves a web of lies
entangling everyone into a mesh of tragedy
the darkness evaded through all these years
finally comes back to haunt your maskless face
the white mask is of innocence and joy
the black mask is of darkness and shadow
the red mask is of passion and anger
all these masks blend into one
how do you tell after all these years?
(thankyou S)Labels: literature, thoughts
/because of my high tolerance.
7:56:00 PM
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Fate / Saturday, November 24, 2007
During my primary years I don't think I was very friendly to any one in particular, save a few while being outrightly modest and conservative/subservient to others. It was that sort of behaviour which festered at me, lending me to induce some sort of hollow sense of self inside during my latter high school years.
However, this post is not dedicated to my later social behaviours, but rather the strewn circumstances that are built upon by probabilities and possibilities. To be short, I'll skip straight to the last day of Year 6, where every single student would go to the large park outside Hurstville Public to play while waiting for parents.
On that day, the joy/sorrow of graduating primary school was similar to the mood/atmosphere generated upon graduating high school, and amidst the tears and silent acknowledgements lay the crux of park fun: water bomb fight. There were massive balloons flying everywhere from the people playing with their Magic cards, to the people playing handball, all the way to the young kids playing on the park equipment.
To me, that day will stand out because it was the only day I ever openly expressed my regret at not knowing my fellow classmates more. In the middle of the bomb fight, I glanced around for a new target and spotted two girls in my class walking home through the park together. Fortunately, my mind was not set on wetting others but rather engaging in candid conversation. Quickly hurrying over, I halted the two and stumbled seeing their quizzical faces.
Their expressions of wonder/surprise/confusion stumped me, and I was suddenly speechless, stuck in one of those endless loops of uncertainty where all I can think of was, "What was it I wanted to say? Think...think..." So there we were, the three of us, the two of them against the one of me, all silent, waiting for some sort of ice breaker which would allow us to connect.
Funnily enough, about 15 seconds of silence later, I stuck my hand out and offered them a handshake, perhaps a sign of conciliation, or maybe a sign of friendship and remembrance, I do not know. Following this, I quickly blurted out these exact words, "I'm really sorry about these two years. I know I've been an idiot sometimes in class and you probably didn't like me much either, but I just really want to let you guys know how awesome it was to be in the same class as you girls for these two years. Thank you so much. I really regret not getting to know you guys better."
There was open silence again following these words. They just looked at me and stared. Stared. Expressionless. Feeling extremely awkward, I quickly ran off and launched a water bomb which hit some guy on the head and exploded, leaving the two alone.
They never took that handshake.
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Two months later, I received an email from one of those classmates who thanked me sincerely for what I tried to do and remarked upon my bravery for being so straight forward. She told me about how stunned she was and was just too shocked/happy to reply, telling me how she would like to know me better as well.
I never replied back, and since then I've only spoken to her once.
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Another example of possibilities against probabilities would be another primary classmate of mine who used to live on my street. We never really talked, the awkward boy-girl silence always filling the void and eventually ended up as an ignorance of the other's existence. There would be the silent looks and the look-aways-once-i-think-he/she-saw-me, but nothing more than that. We were in the same class for 2 years, waited for and sat in the same bus for 4, and sometimes even had to sit next to each other, but I don't think I've spoken more than 3 minutes of dialogue with her in that timespan.
At the end of Year 10, I finally decided to talk to her. She too, was really surprised that we were having a conversation and on that 3 minute bus trip back we had the shortest catch-up of events I ever had. When I told her it'll be nice if we would talk to each other everyday on the bus to catch-up, her lit-up face instantly dimmed and vanished when she somberly told me that it was the last day she was to take the bus.
She was moving the next day to be closer to her high school.
In hindsight, I suppose it was a good thing I did have that final conversation with her. Another situation where I feel I've patched up a situation at the last minute, but scraped by. Like before, we promised to catch up.
We never did. That was still the last time I talked to her. I don't even have her msn, and I doubt she has mine.
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Regret? A bit.
Would I go back and do things differently? No. I don't think even if I go back, I'd want to change what I did. It was all a learning process, and it was one that taught me that sometimes taking the initiative to find out more can change another's complete outlook or grasp an understanding of what was really happening.
I mean, what would really happen if I never did talk to her on that last day? What if I never stuck my hand for a handshake?
Sure, there must have been situations where I did not take the initiative, and because of that, there is probably a lot that I do not know of that I would have.
That, my dear friends, is what I call fate.
Labels: blog, Friends, literature, memories, rant
/because of my high tolerance.
5:35:00 PM
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/ Saturday, November 17, 2007
An Anecdote I wrote for English Advanced at the start of Year 11. I found so many pieces of writing that I did that was just fantastic. One of the few times I think I was honest. Got me an A too. XD
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I remember in the deepest recesses of my brain, a tiny bit of my disturbing memories lurked. As a child in my primary school, nobody cared about my wellbeing except for my friends, and even then, barely. Studying at Hurstville Public for a few years, I would never forget the exhiliration I felt when my hands first touched that letter of acceptance into the 'OC' class. Standing for 'Opportunity Class', a select few students were offered a place into these classes. Like the name suggests, the classes aim to provide its students better chances into getting a place in one of NSW's more prestigious 'selective' high schools. At first, I didn't realise the letter was offering me a place, I just stared at the envelope thinking, "The letter's so small, it probably says I didn't make it." I was expecting a large yellow envelope or something similar. I just stared at the envelope until I decided to pass it on to Mother to open, as I couldn't bear to handle the disappointment. Imagine my surprise when Mother broke down and cried all over me, holding the letter in her hand. I blanked and thought, "Its not that bad, is it?!" After another half hour of confusion and chinglish, both sides were at an understanding. Mother laughing at my ignorance and me even more confused at how I made the class and why God liked messing with me.
So there I was, an 'OC boy' as they call it. One of the elite. The upperclass of school society. My fellow classmates all whispered to one another and pouted, "You know him? Yeah, the guy with that
weird name, he made OC. Be careful, he's not like us." I thought, "how different could I be? I'm still the same person. Nothing's changed." But it seemed my status said otherwise. Although I was respected for being an OC, I was neglected in terms of friendship. My mates all thought I was above them, and insisted on our separation, pointing out all our differences. I had never been more confused...
I never thought of myself as 'superior' or 'elite', but my peers all passed me off in that manner, so naturally, I thought I was what they thought I was. In the majority of my peers, I found a niche of other 'OC's' that shared and reflected my situation. I was lonely in terms of friendship, but friendly in terms of classmates. Naturally, we bonded. Since 'OC' classes didn't officially start until the next year, all we had was the label 'OC' without any difference to my classmates. Again, confusion and desolation didn't disappear until I was amongst the other 'OC's'
Over the holidays, I considered what being an OC would require. I was told that only one in every ten people were offered a place in an 'OC' class, which meant that put me in the top ten percent of the state. I was terrified what that meant. "Is there going to be lots of homework? Will i be liked by the teacher? Does that mean there will be more pressure on me?" It isn't until now I realised that those questions are shared between each individual who goes to a new school or applies for a new job.
Once term started, I found myself struggling in a lot of areas academically. What I found more disturbing was I was even more worried about how I was doing socially. Puberty had started...
I hung out with David Tran, a good friend of mine to today. Being a smart person with a very perceptive mind, I relaxed around him. I also hung out with Kevin and Michelle, both being really exceptional friends, with the latter becoming one of my besties today. Since our parents were colleague's at work, we often hung out together. They helped me out when needed and I returned the favour. The year settled into a pattern of ups and downs, much like my testosterone.
By the end of the first 'OC-ed' year, I had grown exponentially in height and I easily dwarfed the class. They were intimidated by my height and I used the advantage in open intimidation. I had also taken an interest in girls. I started taking notice of the girls in my class and no longer looked upon them as alien creatures, but captivating, attention grabbing things. mind you, I still regard their habits as alien, but at least I understand them better. It wasn't just me either. By the first term in year six, I noticed the other guys stealing some glances at particular girls. Being the only guy to consistently talk to girls, ie Michelle, I gained quick access to the gossip hotline the girls were engaged on. I often laughed at the rumours, and sometimes believed them, but looking back today I truly realise how laughable my immaturity was.
The pressure started to come in when the selective school exam date loomed closer and closer. All notions of primary romance were forgotten as heads were nosed into textbooks and pens flew across paper. The anticipation for the end of the exam signified the need to study more for it. Day in and day out were devoted to Maths, English and General Ability.
Pressure from parents also started pouring in. The Chinese Gossip Queen, ie, my Mother, the phone and her friends, provided a wealth of information on my expected marks and what I should I be striving to get. As a result, their conclusion was reflected amongst the Chinese community: tuition. So for four days a week I was sent to tutoring with Kevin and Michelle to learn the finer points of algebra and narratives.
Two months passed in this fashion and finally, the big day came. Nerves were raw, tension was high and a continuous build of nervousness were realised. I felt totally unprepared. My voice was broken, my kneecaps ached and I had a bad cold. "Why?!" I almost cried out, "Why did the almighty have to test me again? I hated what was happening to my body, and I hated the fact I was sick on the most important event in my life at that point. I just wanted things to be like what they used to be, before I made OC. I wanted to cry.
Now that wasn't the best way to feel when an important exam is in your face. I somehow survived it. Actually, I did quite well considering my tornado of emotions. I've managed to enter a selective high school, keep my friends and even gained control over my body again.
When I look back, I realise that alot of what has happened was forced upon me. Even now I find many of what I do still decided by higher powers. As I prepare for my HSC, I know that I will be expected to adopt more events that will aid me in the HSC. Like it was in primary, it is now in selective. I can only do what fate has alloted for me, and hope for the best.
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sigh...so true.
Labels: blog, emotions, exams, literature, memories, rant, stories, stress
/because of my high tolerance.
1:45:00 PM
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English Extension One Piece: Revenge Tragedy / Friday, November 2, 2007
Creative Writing For Extension English
Cambridge Wong
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Use this stimulus to create a creative piece, using the key as a treasured article of your piece.
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London, October 10th, 2007
London Bridge is falling down...Humming the tune of a small well known nursery rhyme, Rachel Contrapasso lightly and delicately stepped out of the light plane, glancing at the forever raining city with a repressed sense of nostalgia. Home…it’s such a short-lived word, the pervading darkness an echo of the past and a glimpse of the future. Her eyes watered from the strong memories, but her hands clenched in anticipation.
There was no logical explanation for it. Just a 19 year old conviction of faith and hateful will for retribution that she’s fed and raised, and like all things wild, needed to be released one day to its source. The wind blew in her face, its cold bite a sharp reminder of her reality and another slapping reminder of what home truly felt like.
She glanced at her travel guide and quickly located the Thames, her other hand fiddling with a small, brown metal key in the depths of her purse, acknowledging the wet weather by pulling her overbearing waistcoat tightly around her waist. The pain women have to put up with for fashion... She smiled absently, looking at the mirror of her rented car and into the right blue empty eye for any warmth, and agreed with the outcome, whilst staring at the green left eye, and sinking into its depths…
A blur of a warm palette of colours and emotions, a dash of laughter and a sprinkle of trust, all mixed together in a tightly bound sushi people called ‘family’. Rachel Contrapasso remembered something similar too, somewhere embedded in her forlorn past. She was raised in what would have been a family unit, in what was every child’s right and the building foundation of their childhood.
She could still hear her own cries and the deep soothing voices that must have belonged to her father and ‘mother’. She could remember the joys of discovering unknown toys; the wonders of the different smells and the excitement at the interactions of society. Although all these were good and well, what she remembered most of all was what she had not remembered; the lapses of darkness between memories that filled up most of the time in transitions. The first game of hide and seek, followed by the first bicycle fall and followed by the same voices that drifted in and out of consciousness.
She loved her father, treasured every living moment they had together and it was him she resembled more than she did to her mother; they were both heterochromatic. It was their little bond, something that nobody else had and could share. But the thing she missed most of all were the rhymes that he told and the stories that he whispered.
Every night, without fail, she would have him sing the same nursery rhyme, regardless of whatever bedtime story preceded it. ‘
My Fair Lady’ he would also call her, and that meant the world to a six year old girl. Holding onto the key her father gave her, she would keep it around her neck, hoping she’d find her own treasure she could lock up one day.
But there was something unusual about one particular evening. When her father finally comprehended what it was, it was already too late. He would never see her again.
Falling down…falling down…‘Is this the place?’ Rachel stared at the house, squinting to recognize any features which might spark a memory jog. ‘Wait…this must be it. It looks the same as the photo’
Rachel muttered under her breath, walking up to the modest brick building and sighed.
‘I’ve waited 19 years already. What’s a couple more hours? This place does ring oddly familiar, even though I haven’t been here in such a long time. They’ve re-decorated, added a garage, but its still the same. My rightful home…’
Rachel returned to her car, waiting for her ‘mother’ to return, “Home”, she whispered.
‘And so it begins…’
She had cried afterwards. Pretending to be asleep when she saw the blood leak in front of her; his warmth and protection leaking into a crimson puddle on the carpet of her room, and she struggled not to make a sound.
He never saw it coming, and neither did Rachel. As if in slow motion, she could see and rewind that moment clearly, the muffler on the gun recoiling from that trembling hand, straight into her father’s back. And there was no fuss too. The blood was cleaned, the bullet removed and any forensic evidence removed. The body was dumped into the Thames from the bridge and nobody knew the wiser. As for Rachel, Theresa Contrapasso thought she was ignorant of the matter, and so was spared.
For Theresa, there was no reason to dispose of her daughter as well. She only needed to be rid of her husband in order to wed her boyfriend. There was the need. Filing for divorce wouldn’t give her the house; their relationship was never stable and the court would never award full custody over Rachel because of her alcoholism.
But when Rachel ran away, her mother didn’t feel any remorse either. True, she loved her. But her fear of someone ever knowing the truth was greater. Rachel had vowed to avenge her father, and when she was taken in as an orphan and raised in Sydney, she knew she would do as she said some day…
Rachel knew that one day she’d have her tit for a tat. If Theresa wasn’t punished by British law, then she must be punished another way. How dare she take what wasn’t hers away from her? And to add insult to injury, she got full possession of all her father’s property as a by-product of some loophole! She would make Theresa fall and suffer for every moment of anguish it caused Rachel.
London Bridge is falling down…Rachel watched the car pull onto the driveway and saw an older woman step out and slowly walk into the house. Anger flared in Rachel’s heart. It was her. Rachel quickly moved into action, but made sure to keep herself under control.
She went up and delicately knocked onto the door, waiting with the chloroform cloth behind her coat. Rachel smiled at the thought, ‘She probably can’t recognise me now that I’ve grown up. Good, it’ll only work in my favour”
Rachel forced a cheery smile when Theresa answered the door and started, “Hello-“
Her mother stared at her for a second, then snapped, “If you’re selling something, I don’t want any of it!” So saying, she turned to close the door.
Rachel’s eyes narrowed; her blue eye reflected her anger for a moment before she attacked, smothering her mother with the cloth, and quickly sensed her mother falling into unconsciousness as she breathed the fumes.
“Take a key and lock her up,Lock her up, Lock her up.Take a key and lock her up,My fair lady.”Carefully, Rachel lowered the soundly breathing figure of her mother into her trunk and straightened her coat, ruffled by the physical exchange…and waited again.
How will we build it up,Build it up, Build it up,How will we build it up,My fair lady?Her new husband was just as easy to capture. Not a minute longer than her mother. With both in her trunk, Rachel drove off, humming the next verse of the nursery rhyme, happily anticipating the next great act in completing her revenge.
She had pondered this next stage for a long time now; cannot deciding how to properly restore her father’s honour.
However, she had finally reached her verdict as to what to do:
She tied the two of them together; the sick murderers and tossed them in a concrete coffin she had prepared for this occasion, before driving off to do them off the same way she knew her father was rid off.
As she reached the great Thames river, she suddenly felt this huge surge of doubt stab her, ‘Was she any better than her mother? Her mother had done murder to suit her purposes. Didn’t she hate her for it? But isn’t she doing the same thing right now?’
She shook off those thoughts, “I have to do this! I must! This isn’t about me…its for father!”
Build it up with stone so strong,Stone so strong, Stone so strong.Build it up with stone so strong,My fair lady.She opened the coffin and smiled; her victims were now awake. Her mother kicked and squirmed but couldn’t make a discernible word through her gagged mouth.
Rachel looked down at her, “You don’t recognise me? Look closer”. So saying, she bent down and looked at her mother straight eye to eye, taking pleasure as her mother’s own eyes widened in horror at her eyes; ‘yes, the same eyes as your dead husband! The one you murdered! My father!’
Rachel kicked her and closed the lid, taking one last look at her mother and her lover before shutting it and pushing it into the river. The magic of her revenge lies in the key in her purse, the only thing that can open the coffin. The coffin wasn’t airtight, with water able to pour in through the very same keyhole so they would drown soon, and the coffin wouldn’t be found because of its weight, and would eventually be covered by dirt as the currents rolled in its southerly course.
“Say hi to Dad for me, would you Mum?”
Stone so strong will last so long,Last so long, Last so long.Stone so strong will last so long,My fair lady.Rachel enjoyed the sight from her car; the brilliance of the stormy night in the beautiful city of London, and closed her eyes as the lights of the city shone with an amber warmth she finally felt after years of isolation and cold calculation.
She drove off and over the river, tossing her treasured key into the river below and was finally free of her restraints and able to pursue her own goals; to start her new life in a city she could finally call ‘home’.
Rachel hummed the nursery rhyme for the last time of her life.
London Bridge is falling down,Falling down, Falling down.London Bridge is falling down,“My. Fair. Lady.”Labels: HSC, literature
/because of my high tolerance.
6:49:00 PM
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The Rules For Being Human (Cherie Carter Scott) / Wednesday, September 12, 2007
The Rules For Being Human.1. You will receive a body.You may like it or hate it, but it will be yours for the entire period of this time around.
2. You will learn lessons.You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called Life. Each day in this school you will have the opportunity to learn lessons. You may like the lessons or think them irrelevant and stupid.
3. There are no mistakes, only lessons.Growth is a process of trial and error: Experimentation. The 'failed' experiments are as much a part of the process as the experiment that ultimately 'works'.
4. A lesson is repeated until learned.A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you have learned it. When you have learned it, you can then go on to the next lesson.
5. Learning lessons does not end.There is no part of life that does not contain its lessons. If you are alive, there are lessons to be learned.
6. "There" is no better than "here".When your "there" has become a "here", you will simply obtain another "there" that will again look better than "here".
7. Others are merely mirrors of you.You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects something you love or hate about yourself.
8. What you make of your life is up to you.You have all the tools and resources you need. What you do with them is up to you. The choice is yours.
9. Your answers lie inside you.The answer to Life's questions lie inside you. All you need to do is look, listen and trust.
10. You will forget all this.
Annoying slice of my life.
Labels: literature
/because of my high tolerance.
10:10:00 PM
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I am me.
In all the world, there is no one else exactly like me. There are people who have some parts like me but no one adds up exactly like me. Therefore, everything that comes out of me is authentically mine because I alone chose it.
I own everything about me - my body, including everything it does; my mind, including all my thoughts and ideas; my eyes, including the images of all they behold; my feelings, whatever they may be - anger, joy, frustration, love, disappointment, excitement; my mouth and all the words that come out of it - polite, sweet and rough, correct or incorrect; my voice, loud and soft; all my actions, whether they be to others or myself.
I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears. I own all my triumphs and successes, all my failures and mistakes.
Because I own all of me, I can become intimately acquainted with me. By doing so, I can love me and be friendly with me in all my parts. I can then make it possible for all of me to work in my best interests.
I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me, and other aspects that I do not know. But as long as I am friendly and loving to myself, I can courageously and hopefully look for the solutions to the puzzles and for ways to find out more about me.
However I look and sound, whatever I say and do, and whatever I think and feel at a given moment in time is me. This is authentic and represents where I am at that moment in time.
When I review later how I looked and sounded, what I said and did, and how I thought and felt, some parts may turn out to be unfitting. I can discard that which is unfitting and keep that which proved fitting, and invent something new for that which i discarded.
I can see, hear, feel, think, say and do. I have the tools to survive, to be close to others, to be productive, to make sense and order out of the world of people and things outside of me.
I own me and therefore I can engineer me.
I am me and I am I am okay.
Labels: literature, stress
/because of my high tolerance.
10:01:00 PM
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~ Freedom ~ / Monday, February 26, 2007
Yesterday a little white cloud stared from the sky
staring at the little shade he created
wondering what's in store for him.
He squeezed his little eyes and
tried seeing the future he could have had.
But all in vain...
Or at least, perhaps...
there might be someone down there
who'd stare back, perhaps?
Just maybe...
Today a little white cloud stared from the sky
He squinted hard, squeezing those tiny eyes of his
past his family and his friends
and wondered again,
"Where will I be in the future?
Will I be seeing new places?
Will I meet new friends?
Will I know what I'm supposed to be doing?
Boy, it sure is weird just floating aimlessly..."
The little white cloud kept wondering about
this and that...
He sighed.
Tomorrow a little white cloud sighed from the sky
Oh what a sigh...
Vapour, Mist, Droplets, Rain...
"Don't cry little cloud!"
Amazed, the little cloud stared down
at his little spot of shade
past the bright rays of sunshine
and just at the little figure
that stared back.
"You're getting me all wet.
I don't do very well in the rain, you know.
And I bet you don't do that well either,
so crying isn't going to solve any of our problems."
The little person stared up
past the tears...
Smiling.
Perhaps.
One day that little white cloud from the sky so high
Won't be so little anymore.
Be. Free.
It's been so long since I wrote a poem...I forgot how much I like them. Le sigh...
This image I like very much.
Labels: literature
/because of my high tolerance.
8:34:00 PM
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