Moved

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See my blood so now you know I really am hurting

So it was like, the part few days had sort of disappeared from my life. Gone, vapourised, annihilated. It's so depressing I choose to forget.

It was school. It was knowing that everyone around me was feeling crap. Was it the pathetic world that made everyone down?

Or maybe it's just me, polluting the existence of my friends with my toxic pessimism. It might be my fault.

So what happened exactly? I recall snippets. Saved like being in school, trying to perk myself up by acting like a perky, jovial version of me. It sort of works. People are nicer to me when they think I won't bite. Hell, maybe they even want a piece of the humour that they think i have.

Actually it's kinda sad, for if I did actually act the way I feel, I might at least got some reaffirmation that the demons in my head do actually exist, that a little understanding or even help would be great.

I keep on trying to be the guy who's always there for the friends I have. But sometimes it can be bloody hard. I'm their listener. I try to be happy for them. But where do i find my very own listener?

Screw it. I don't deserve any love or concern. I'm Superman. I'm EXPECTED to give and not take.

==

There have been snippets of happiness.



Being out with friends who matter. Having heart to heart talks. Trying to come to terms with old unresolved issues. Walking a hell while yakking it out. While watching the cars crest the hill in the silent night.

Realising that I'm a cynical bastard yet again. Realising that everything's sorta pointless if you think into it. I don't even know who I am any more. I act so hard to be happy and pleasant and to fall within the limits of normal for human behaviour. Is that my persona or is that already part of me? No one would ever believe I'm one of those who are about to tip themselves off the cliff at any time.

Just making other people feel better. But deep down, when they pour out their insides to me, I wish I could have someone listen, understand, get me through my crappy life.

I'm not worth it though.

==



There's shallow consumerism that I feel absolutely guilty for. Caving in and buying a really expensive bag I've been coveting for years.



Consumerism is shallow pleasure.

==



Even reading the final instalment of Harry Potter on release date doesn't cheer me up.



==



Pain and blood, they make me feel real again. At least people are more concerned about a superficial bloody toe than a dying soul deep in me.

I Need Some Sleep

Sleepy. Tired. Should I like, start a new blog? This one's getting nowhere.

Life Becoming a Landslide

And it's becoming more and more clear.

Life, ya know. It isn't really my kinda thing. I mean look at it. We all want to achieve and do well and be happy. That's like 100% of the world.

And achievement is defined by the normal curve. When you define success, you define failure too. Not everyone succeeds.

And what's the point of life if one grows old and dies as a lowly worker whose ambitions to be a great author had never happened. There he is, taking the early bus to work just like he'd been doing for the past 4 decades, so jaded at the world he doesn't give a damn if anyone stares at him for digging his nose with his pinkie.

I don't have what it takes to be successful. I don't have what it takes to be happy. I'd fail anyway. Why do I even bother?

Last night I had a compelling urge to end it all. But it isn't good enough. I'd be doing my education and intelligence an injustice if I don't even know how to die cleanly and successfully. Tactics, comrades, tactics!

Moonshine

There's not enough alcohol to keep me sedated and nice like a good boy in the fridge so I'm half-fucked drunk so that I'm all crazy and all but I can't freaking sleep which is the main purpose I want to get myself all drunk.

I'm not able to sleep knowing that everything is just so fucked up, that it's all my fault and I'm fucked up and crazy and I don't even know to believe what others say or what I believe or what I feel or what I think or when the alcohol speaks to me. Is it my fault or am I just lousy in which case it's also my fault or is it just the world sucks and I'm the one who always loses out in the end? But people don't just lose out. They gotta fail to lose our and in that case it's my fault. No matter how I look at it it's my fault.

I deserve to be macerated, left to rot, ripped apart in the cold.

I fucking hate life and for the first time in a long while I truly wish I were truly dead. True, the idea of death sends my heart racing on some nights lying in bed mulling about things, or in the shower staring at the burnished metal pipes.

Fuck life.

There's too much pain in my head, too protracted a civil war in my mind. SOMEONE FUCKING KILL ME BEFORE I LOSE MY MIND AND GO FOR THE KILL.

Killing in the name of

I'm the bulletproof monk who survived a whole day of especially harrowing school today! Was grilled, charbroilled, etc during one of the tutorials, though I've experienced worse. I've been to hell and back so there's not much that I can't survive. Those who know about my traumatic surgical end of posting test will understand.

Yay.

Somehow feeling mechanical today. Board the bus. Right hand on door rail, left hand tapping my ez-Link card, monkeybar my way into the bus, balance myself, with the exact precision needed to just keep myself balanced during the bumpy bus ride.

Get off the bus, get through the day, make small talk. Put on a happy front. And don't feel happy or sad or anything because it's just a routine. A series of many dance steps. Heave ho.

Yay.

Went for a good jog in Bishan Park and well, despite just barely recovering from a shitty bout of sinusitis, I could zip through the western half without being overtaken once. And overtaking a number of people who were dressed way sportier than me, in all their synthetic fabric singlets and all.

The only thing sporty about my attire are my high end shoes, but as you already know, shoes DO matter - they're the things that make physical contact with the ground, and determines how stably you can go. Yay.

There's this thing about me that fantasises about being an underdog - looking like the one who would never make it, the one with nothing to his name - then winning it all. Sorta like, a fetish for Q-cars such as those MPS Mazdas where they put in a humongous engine in slightly-modified bodies of their normal saloon cars, for insane power-to-weight ratio. With barely a hint of sports styling.

Well, I smoked them all wearing a cheapo pair of shorts and an old oversized cotton tee. Granted, loose, floppy clothing increase my coefficient of drag, and make me feel like I'm drenched in my own stifling sweat, but that's fine print.

I win.

Yay.

Oh, I got banned in an online forum in support of my fallen comrades (no, they're more than just online friends) who had been unreasonably banned too.

Yay.

Do the Hippogriff

Yay Cong's back from the US and A. And he have a Cultural Learnings to share with everyone. But damn, everyone else we know are busy with one thing or another, so it's just the 2 of us.

Scrambled to look for tickets for Hairy Potty and the Order of the Phoenix. Cathay's totally booked when I checked at 9.30am, as in, 2nd row from the front. But yay, Cong managed to get some pretty good tix at Eng Wah Suntec. (It's sorta hidden from the rest of town so there's always seats there - in fact, I've watched Spidey 3 there on opening day and that's without booking.)



So how was it? Cong says it's pretty damned good, because it's confident enough to stand on its own, without having to support itself word for word from the novel. I found it quite a bit weaker than Goblet of Fire - the magic simply isn't as magical any more. And while admittedly the book is the crappiest so far, it's rather sacrilegious to rework the story so much and pare off the subplots and simplify the main plot into one swift vignette. And well, Luna Lovegood is supposed to be way more lovable than this.

Goblet of Fire was much better. Cooler visuals, a more engaging plot that followed the book nicely, and hey, it was a killer soundtrack with Jarvis Cocker on board.

Oh well, Cong told me how he liked US and A, and how everything's sorta sweeter and funner and brighter and more alive there. Instead of sterile Singapore where everything bores the hell outta you. Sigh. Every year I rot in NUS, I lose a thousand more brain cells. In this hellhole where I have to conform against my wishes just to keep afloat.


I hate flyers. Ha. Ha. Very funny.

Walked a hell lot, crapping about Dating Theory and How Singapore Sucks and all, stopping by some shops here and there. CD shops. Stuff. Crumpler bags are hell of expensive. Damn. And stuff in the US and A is sometimes ridiculously cheap online if you know the right places, so that's one major Cool Plus Point. We're both so bored of Orchard.

Cong's meeting some friends, so I went home and all. Tried to do some revision, but damn, only lasted half an hour.

And diabolical plan to ship Crumpler bag from USA to save money fell through. Shipping's insane.