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Friday, June 30
Nothing like watching Brazilian soccer with Brazilian soccer players. Spent the wee hours of this morning surrounded by a sea of green and yellow, homemade popcorn, and several victory dances. I have fun neighbours. Damn, I'm addicted to Shaun's blog music (It's Boston by Ausgustana). Yeh, we'll rule the world someday. In the meantime, let's just play in it. (And damn, newurbanmale has hot guyz.)
Hopeless.
But honey everything you do just leaves me needing you.
Sexy the suicide monkey.
On the train today I observed a bunch of whom I presume were students from a special school. (A presumption solely based on physical appearance, and not any rogue behaviour on their part.)
And then my surge of sanctimonious pity gave way to an inexplicable wistfulness.
Must be nice to not feel the remote need to be normal. (And here I mean normal in the most relative terms.) Must be nice not to be burdened by the superficial necessities we've all created in life - like Nike dunks and Crumpler bags. It's satisfaction we crave, and I like to think they have it.
So, making my way (amidst the aesthetically-pleasing symmetry of palm trees that line Woodlands Ave 2) through the stream of students in their deliberately faded denims, every one armed with laptops and smiles that convey varying degrees of social consciousness - I can't help but wonder how long each of them spent in the bathroom this morning trying to be normal.
Joga Bonito.
Italy sure win lar, cause they got Mafia.
Kick snap punch!
I've come up with a new theory, namely - We are what we watch.
Based predominantly on intense studies of my own behaviour and train of thought after I've subjected myself to any particular TV drama at length, here's why: After watching 2 whole seasons of Lost, I find myself not only bathing less (because the grungy look is in) but also wondering what my bathing less could mean (because everything means something); Smallville brought about a strong suspicion that my neighbour's hitherto inexplicable ability to know all the latest gossip may be Kryptonite-induced; and Desperate Housewives made me smash my pipe to get the plumber over.
So you really can't blame me for accusing that lady on the bus with the horrible B.O. of being a suspected suicide carrier of some new biochemical airborne viral infection, can you? Blame Alias.
Janie's got a gun.
If there's one phrase people like to console themselves (and, even worse, other people) with, besides the proverbial and ridiculous "Time heals all wounds", its that-which-can-be-applied-to-almost-any-situation-with-appropriate-insertion-of-tiny-grimace-and-shake-of-head: "Things change".
...Dude, words of consolation come from cheesy one-liners that Confucious made up, not statements you can find out of a Physics textbook.
Because, you know, it's a fact. Things do change.
Like how you and that particular someone don't talk anymore; or how you don't even have the number of your best friend in primary school in your handphone when you used to be able to dial it with your eyes closed; or how your biggest worry was Polly missing from her Pocket; or how you used hug your dad when he came home and all you can manage now is a guttural noise from somewhere at the bottom of your throat; or just how that old BSB poster which you professed your undying love to a million times is now sitting rolled up at the back of your closet (read: NOT ME).
I guess there's some things I'd really like to change - like my increasing anti-romantic notions, and there's things I wish I could go back to, like eyeing cute guys in the CJ canteen. But change is here to stay (an oxymoron if there ever was one), so deal with it, buddy.
So the only answer I have as to why Ronaldo looks like he put on 20 pounds, had a hangover, then decided to play in the World Cup - well, things change. Hahaha ha ha. So deal with it, buddy.
Goooooo Brasil!
Me and my pet monkey.
The drinking water over at Desaru is a heady mix of chlorine and lemon; tarantulas lurk about the corridors; tap water is yellow; the mosquitoes are way swifter than the room service - and yet, you know, it was a great weekend.
Because God was there.
Today's itinerary was a trip to the zoo, something I've been anticipating for awhile, but sadly the forces of the time, the weather, and rugby guys prevented us from doing so. Still, the greater part of my day was spent watching funnayyy videos on YouTube. And since I'm on this, here's a sprinkling of tickler tidbits for you to feast on. The Wine Kone, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, Hard Gay, Stick-figure Warning Man, Rockson, Russell Peters and Do Not Laugh. Cast your votes. And don't blame me for the stitches.
Finally managed to catch Xmen 3: The Last Stand today - I must say it was an elaborate plethora of good effects, tantalising characters and superhero fighting that almost managed to cover up its cheesy one-liners. Almost. I mean, srsly. It was like watching a desaturated version of Power Rangers. High body counts and 360 degree twists at every corner do not guarantee a good show, Mr X3 Director. The proposed storyline about the dilemma between curing mutancy and embracing it was promising - but I guess promises can be broken. Since we all know how bad I am at reviews - I'll sum it up in one word: Grey.
I'm the juggernaut, bitch.
How do I say this?
Hi-I-really-like-you-and-I-know-you-don't-feel-the-same-and-to-be-honest-it-kinda-hurts-right-now-but-I-just-wanted-you-to-know-that-I-do-and-one-day-you-will-be-mine-because-I-said-so.
The good old.
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker
With flowers in my hair
In 77 and 69 revolution was in the air
I was born too late to
A world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker
With flowers in my hair.
When the head of state didn't play guitar
Not everybody drove a car
When music really mattered
And radio was king
When accountants didn't have control
And the media couldn't buy your soul
And computers were still scary
And we didn't know everything.
When popstars still remained a myth
And ignorance could still be bliss
And when God Save the Queen
She turned a whiter shade of pale
When my mom and dad were in their teen
And anarchy was still a dream
And the only way to stay in touch
Was a letter in the mail.
When record shops were on top
And vinyl was all that they stocked
And the super info highway was
Still drifting out in space
Kids were wearing hand me downs
And playing games meant kick arounds
And footballers still had long hair
And dirt across their face.
I was born too late to
A world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker
with flowers in my hair.
by Sandi Thom.
Auto-contrast.
Despondency's on the house tonight.
This is just a tribute.
To beaded sequins and jade-green swirls; where dragons eat up little girls. To jellybeans that've lost their colour; to each mockingbird without a lover. To molehills that have been made into mountains; for every dream that has lowered its curtain. To Alice and her Wonderland; and the soggy fate of the Gingerbread Man. To castles built solely on air; to the princesses who live up there. To superheroes who don't wear tights; to whoever will come save me tonight.
Superheroes someday!
