Oh, turd.

Yesterday I went on a walk with Bessie and we talked.

"I want to be happy everyday."

"You know that's not possible right, if you're happy everyday, it wouldn't be happiness, it'd be reduced to normalcy."

"Come again? I didn't absorb that."

"You see, if you were happy everyday, you wouldn't think of it as being happy, it'd just be an average feeling, because in order for one to feel happiness, one has got to not feel happiness in the time prior to the onslaught of happiness. It has to be a cycle you see. That's how things work."

"Well, ol-- no I mean, middle-aged people see things very differently."

"Hahaha."

When people ask me if I like what I'm doing in school, I am sometimes momentarily at loss for words. Because it's not that simple an answer like yes or no. I always find myself having to weigh out the pros and cons each time before giving an answer. Most of the time I know that I like it, but again I don't want to give any false impressions that I like everything about it. Things are always changing, and in a sense I don't like that. Why I might be saying that I don't like change now, and in another 10 minutes I might say that change is the best thing that can ever happen. How drastic, this concept of inconsistency.

Nowadays it's increasingly difficult to find someone to confide in. I know my friends are there, but to what extent are they there when they've got a whole lot of other stuff to worry about? It's becoming more and more apparent that school, work, significant other halves, projects, CCAs, physical distance do drive some mightily big wedges between us. It's like there's always something more important. Something. And it really isn't that appropriate lamenting to you about me when you've always got that something which is really much more significant. I dunno.

One thing that's obvious though, is that when you don't ask, people don't tell. More and more I am relying on extremely superficial indicators like MSN nicknames and blog entries to keep me updated on people and the state they're in now. And even then those aren't accurate indicators.

And you really don't want to start thinking about those who are absolutely inactive online, because that's too much to cope with. It doesn't help that people are too busy to meet up, or to even talk on the phone. And then you've got to worry about those who are just terrible telephone conversation partners, like me. It really doesn't help that in meeting up I've got to be very, very comfortable with you before I really start talking, like, talking you know. Sometimes you just find that you don't know what to say, and sometimes there's just so much to say but you don't know if it's too much, and all that comes out is a morose sounding "yea. haha," and then you feel utterly stupid, to the extent of wanting to kick yourself.

And there are topics of conversation to worry about. Why are things made tedious that way?

I want a strawberry sundae right now, but because I am about to declare hermitship for about 3 weeks, I think I'll save it for 3 weeks later.

Okay. Hermitship, now.

In (Lesser) Memoriam

The first time I came into contact with a lifeless human body was when my Grandma died. I was fifteen then, and that was an age where you're too young to even start and try to comprehend the workings of the world, but too old to reach out for your parents. Two things at age nineteen I'm pretty sure of though, is that you're never going to be able to even start comprehending the workings of the world, and that you'll never be too old to reach out to your parents.

When I walked into the front door I saw that everyone was separated by space - at least in my memory they were, and I don't know how much this memory has altered. You know how sometimes you're so absolutely certain that some things you'll remember for life, (how can you ever forget, how?) and then in a while you don't know what to think because everybody tells you that memories are capable of change? But you were so sure... or maybe not.

The elders were standing around the dining table, each clearly buffered by a pocket of space from the other. I have got no impression of the cousins though. I only remember one or two of them sitting on the steps to the second storey. I don't even remember Carolyn being present. Maybe she wasn't, maybe she was. Should I ask her or will that be awkward. Why should it be awkward now that 4 going on 5 years have passed right? Not that it matters now, because these dregs of minute details will eventually dilute in time to come.

Phillip and Bessie went into the room, and I followed, because that seemed to be the right thing to do. Can the dead hear then, because I was speaking to Grandma with a voice in my mind. She used to speak Cantonese, and I used to call her Po po. I've got a photograph of her feeding me rice off the table with a pair of chopsticks, and I've got one of me watching her watch me play with Mickey Mouse. I don't have any photographs after the age of ten taken individually with her. I didn't even know how old she was exactly.

I held her hand, and it was cold.
I got scared.
She was lying on the bed, looking like she was sleeping. But the difference was that she wasn't breathing, and that made all the difference in the world. I was afraid of the Po po I saw lying on the bed that night.
She wasn't the Po po I knew. Not anymore.

I cannot remember if Bessie cried. I left the room when the coldness from her hand passed on into mine. I joined my cousin on the steps, sombre, not knowing if it was appropriate to even smile. We talked about school. I think the ambulance arrived at this point.
They put a white cloth over Grandma.

It was not nice. All of it. All of it was not nice.

They embalmed the body for the funeral. I remember thinking that Po po's face now looked like plastic. We all had to wear black and white, and we stayed up through the night, almost every night.
I got scared when I looked into the coffin, because I was afraid that Po po would open her eyes. After all, I was fifteen then, and that was an age where you're too young to even start and try to comprehend the workings of the world, but too old to reach out for your parents.

We had to kneel a lot in the prayers the temple people chanted. There were many people I didn't recognise who came. There were a lot of joss sticks to light. I had to exchange schoolbags with Jiawen because mine was in bright red, while hers was in grey and blue, and I had to go to the funeral after school, and at funerals you're not supposed to have anything brightly coloured on you.

The most terrible part was the incineration.
They put Po po into the fire.
All that came out was ash, and chunks of bones that the fire couldn't and wouldn't consume, like it knew we needed physical proof that she was gone, and at the same time needed something to linger.

On the way back in the bus we were all quiet, drinking our packet drinks, like it was taboo to speak.

At the age of nineteen my grandma comes to mind occasionally.
And on a night like this, I wonder.

We Learn. Every Day.

Would you still be friends with me when you find out that I have done the following:


1. Shaved my head completely bald in a fit of intense frustration over the collective of hay that constantly flops down my short forehead. Without hair my forehead looks like it extends all the way to my nape. There's no knowing where my forehead starts from/end at because the barber did such an amazing job that it looks like I either waxed my head to remove all hair roots as well, or was born without pores on my scalp such that hair cannot grow. In other words my head is now smooth as a marble, literally, and when you touch it it feels like a baby's ass - minus the fine hair on the baby's ass of course.


2. Went to the barber's instead of the hairdresser's to shave aforementioned head.

3. Officially changed my name to Baldwin because of a simple thought which grew into dislike for the name, which eventually got me hung up on, which snowballed into something like fascination, and then it become an obsession. Thus I am now known as Baldwin Tan. Suits my hairless image fine too.


4. Bathed, when I say bathed I mean I shampooed my head of thick long hair (when I still had a head of thick long hair) and soaped the entire surface area of my fat body, with just one full pail of water, which I amazingly found out, is still excessive. I shall start campaigning for "One Pail Per Bath" in a bid to save water. Lovely.


5. Sat at a coffeshop in Avenue 4, where I was positively sure I was the youngest around, thinking of how much is excess when it comes to thinking of a person. (Is it me being fussy, or do you detect a subtle difference between "thinking OF a person" and "thinking ABOUT a person".) And then enjoying it.








6. Has lied to you twice in this entry alone, specifically in saying that I've done points 1, 2 and 3. Did you really think that I'd go to a barber, huh? A barber?!







And no, I wasn't lying when I said that I bathed with just one full pail of water. Go on try it! (:

Your Voice Sounds Hoarse

I pinch my forehead and I think it is too short. My fringe falls like a messy flop over my short forehead.

It's almost becoming a prerogative to be hungover on the days I have a date with the jc bunch. Of course I try not to let the puking get in the way of my stepping out of the house, but you've got understand that puking in public can be potentially mentally scarring. In a warped way I'm always clear headed when I'm hungover. It's like I see and feel about things in a way I've never seen or felt before. Especially with regard to my adamance in total abstinence from alcohol which peaks at its strongest when my stomach is retching and I'm expelling bile. Other than these times my resolve to stay away from alcohol is like my attendance to school - almost religious.

Okay la scratch that, who am I trying to kid right.

Other than these times my resolve to stay away from alcohol is like my attendance to school - nonexistent la can, nonexistent.

They say the alcohol, dear, it ain't so sweet

You don't have to drink that much.

But you can let your hair down,

Every once in a little while.

This was playing in my head the whole time the last time I was hungover. It's a twisted version of When You Were Young by The Killers that my horribly clear mind came up with.

Today I realise that I'm almost slightly perverse when it comes to doing housework. I only derive enjoyment from cleaning up when I see a substantial amount of dust on surfaces getting transferred onto the wet cloth, and then into the pail where it gives the water a dark, murky appearance. I only enjoy sweeping the floor when I see a lot of hair and dust gathered by the broom into a pile. I absolutely abhor it when there are mysterious droplets of water either on the floor or in the dustpan, and when the broom sweeps the hair and dust across the droplets it does something icky to the pile of rubbish collected. Bits of the rubbish pile are now wet, and this causes some of the hair and dust to coagulate on the floor, and strands of straw on the broom to stick together as well, and I lose all enthusiasm for sweeping after that.

But you know what that means don't you? It means that I'm only inclined to cleaning up and sweeping when the place is awfully dirty, and only when there's enough dust to make a pail of water murky, and only when there's enough hair on the ground to cover up the shiny patch on a balding man's head.

On an absolutely random note, Baldwin's not a very nice name to name your kid eh. Imagine the names he/she is going to get at school. Why, it's not very nice to name your daughter Baldwin, considering how Baldwin sounds relatively like a guy's name. (okay, okay, let's not go into the masculinity/feminity binary debate here)
Well, unless you really hate girls for children and want impede her social skills for life seeing how she wouldn't be able to get past introducing her name to strangers she meet, and end up depending on counselling for the rest of her life till she goes to change her name. Which she probably wouldn't dare to because she'd be gripped by the potential trauma she might face when she submits her name-change form to the counter person and gets horribly sniggered at. O the devastation, how unfair life is to girls named Baldwin.
And it wouldn't help if people named Baldwin reach middle age and actually start to bald. Urgh it's a terrible, terrible name.

Back to the point, I think it's perverse to actually derive joy from doing housework in any case, regardless the amount of dirt accumulated. So anyway, I'm a little bit high in a wacked up way purely from the time itself. The clock reads 5 a.m. and I can almost smell the fresh air which comes with nice early mornings when the sun hasn't risen. I think I should go for a walk but I'll probably faint about halfway and roll down the six flight of stairs from my house to the ground floor. Alternatively I can take a lift but I think I'll probably faint about halfway down the corridor to the lift. I'm being a little too ambitious here I think before I even get to stand up from my desk I'll fall asleep in front of the comhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhuyj

Indulge me la.

I have fallen in love with Jay Chou all over again. Hey it's not like I could help it. I was just reading blogs innocently when pictures of Jay's concert started popping up everywhere and... and... and... you get it right? Not my fault that he's so bloody photogenic, and looks good enough to, urm... eat.


Oh oh, and George is sailing for Taiwan in April. Yes you read that right, sailing, not flying. Flying is only for mere civilians like you and I. Divers do it the special way.

"Bring Jay Chou back for me?"
"OK! But will mochi do too?"

AH. I look forward to the day that Jay Chou acknowledges my existence. And DON'T THINK THAT WAY, whatever you're thinking which goes along the line of "in your dreams" and rubbish like that.
I will push you onto the ground and make you eat grass if you do.

My Heart, Like Chocolate, Melts Easily.

Dear friend,

Today on the way back in the bus you swam your way into my thoughts when your favourite song played, although I wonder if it is still your favourite song now. I somehow doubt it, but I guess it doesn't really matter now, because the past isn't necessarily real, and the present becomes past all too quickly.

I think you always have been unique, in a way that makes me want to be closer to you, but at the same time wary because proximity might just destroy your individuality.

Is it only March then, because it certainly feels like we've been talking a lot and talking more. How much is too much, when anything goes? What will happen if we have got nothing left to say?

Technically we've known each other for four and a half years. That isn't a long time, and then again it isn't short either. We're somewhere in between, and I think in-between suits us fine. We're like seasonal friends because we only seem to talk and meet up at certain times of the year.

I think of you at ridiculously random times.

Yours Truly.

Speeding down Failure Avenue.

This is when I decide to cease attending school, both lectures and tutorials. Considering my current attendance, I figure I won't be missing much if I simply stopped going completely.

Now now, there's no need to look so shocked. You should have roughly been able to recognise all the telltale signs foreboding that this kind of thing was about to happen in your, ranging from the daily to the sporadic, interaction with me. (Oh I swear the mosquitoes are out to get me. They fly around incessantly when I am seated at my table, and when I leave the room to take the insecticide they're all gone. I think they actually recognise the shiny, slim cylinder of insecticide spray. Have I mentioned before that mosquitoes don't bite me? Do mosquitoes bite or sting anyway? Technically they're puncturing your skin with that needle like tube of their's right, so I guess it's stinging.)

Methinks it's a good time for a list! (Oh boy, lists! Lists! I love lists! And on a sidenote, people with lisps cannot pronounce lists eh. Just like how they cannot even communicate their condition adequately because the word lisp is a cruel word for lispers. The world works in cruel ways.)

Telltale Signs of Subject's Imminent Cessation of Attendance to School.

1. When Subject gets less than 8 hours of sleep in two days and nights.
This may be due to Subject rushing out assignments as one very, very strong possibility among various others. Or it may be due to Subject's furious attempt at reading course texts. Or it may be Subject's disgusting habit of procrastinating coupled with the evil Internet with access readily at hand, all while assignment-doing is ongoing.

2. When Subject gets less than 8 hours of sleep in two days and nights, but still fails to hand in assignment on time.
This causes Subject to be panicky, and distraught even if Subject's face displays calm and nonchalance carried off by a blank look which is a result of insufficient shut eye. Although friends of Subject may not possibly be able to tell, deep down, Subject is really freaking out. One cannot possibly fathom the stress level of Subject unless one happens to be Subject's Procrastibuddy and is in the same boat as Subject.

3. When Subject runs amok in the house with hands flailing in the air, loudly proclaiming "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOOOL!"
Family members should immediately be able to pick up the negative vibes Subject is exuding, and take Subject's claim seriously for once.

4. When Subject gets around the house by rolling about on the floor like a blob.
Okay this is random.

5. When Subject merges molecularly with bed and sheets, to the point that Subject has difficulty detaching body from bed on school mornings.
Some may think this is a matter of mind over body, but Subject's assimilation with bed has been proven by Subject's perennial case of bedhead.

6. When Subject goes to school but does not attend class.
And instead hides away in a certain auditorium with a certain Procrastibuddy to talk and laugh about everything under a certain sun, which is ironic because it certainly has been raining cats and dogs these days.

7. When Subject stops asking people out because Subject has schoolwork in mind.
This highly impediments Subject's social skills, and it does not help that Subject hardly sees school friends due to Subject's failure to appear in school.

Thus concluded.

But then again I think that if I start going to school regularly, in a warped and twisted way I might be able to recognise the joys of school again. So I am going to try. Have I mentioned that I thoroughly enjoy doing project with my project mates because they're all super funny people? And have I mentioned that my friends from Lit are super funny too? And not to mention uber lovely. (:

Gosh. This might just get me going to school again.

XIIV

Take

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g

e

into

this

vile

mind

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mine