Why I dislike the Big Bang theory.

Leonard kisses like a lubed-up vacuum cleaner.

Another Night Wasted.

Barely a year has passed since I stepped out of Malaysia.

I now realize that some things which I held dear, to boost my self-worth, are nothing.

I cannot even spurn the people whom I used to spurn.

I’m going down.

I am a disgrace to the Chinese people, and to the Malaysian people in general.

I don’t fit in anywhere. I am an outcast wherever I go.

I want to reach out to others, but I am limited by my lack of exposure. And I have only my indolence to blame.

Miscellenea.

It is not so bad, living in a place where the noise keeps you up till you feel like writing something. To be fair, though, the noise stopped an hour ago, and I don’t really have anything to write about.

It is not so bad, living outside Malaysia. On the other hand, all is not wine and roses here. Wait, scratch that. I think the most accurate thing to say would be that I have all the wine and roses I could ever want...and I’m sick of them.

It is not so bad, being sick – you get to confuse indolence with malaise. On the other hand, it is a terrible, terrible thing to be in hospital, thank goodness I’m not there. When I was a kid I actually wanted to stay in a hospital. At least once. Back then, I thought that it was no different from a hotel room. Of course, I didn’t know about cannulas. Or medical students wanting to insert them.

It is not so bad, running out of things to write. Then maybe I could hit the proverbial sack. Preferably with a baseball bat.
And sometimes, it gets really bad. Thanks for seeing me through, God.

Thank God for Google, else the title would have been some weird, non-exciting mutation of miscellaneous.

EDIT: DO THESE PEOPLE EVER SLEEP AT ALL. On the other hand, maybe I am the one to blame for having nothing to do on a Friday night.

Facebook killed the Blogging Star.

Six Years Ago

A thought forms in the mind – a suggestion, a claim. Much like a soap bubble blown by a child or an adult with asthma – small, yet iridescent.

It gnaws at the mind throughout the day, and you develop it slowly - turning it over, pondering its various facets, discarding the fallacies (or even enhancing them), tasting how the words sound in your mouth, admiring how the process spreads across the landscape of your head, just the right amount of butter scraped over a slice of bread neither too big or too small or too thick. Preferably wholegrain. Raisins are optional.

You try to ignore it, but it shouts in your ear, begging to be told. Slowly, yet inexorably, you come to the decision to expose it to the world. At first you hesitate – what would they say? – and perhaps it is at this point where you pull out your mental toolkit and make some adjustments, refining that stray thought, maybe even adding some bits which you didn’t think about, when it was your own private thought, safely snickered inside the recesses of your head. Minutes, hours, even days go by, and finally you arrive at the final draft, dressing up your Cinderella with old pumpkins and rats disguised as chariots and horses so fine, they are worthy of a Southern exclamation of praise. This, of course, makes you the fairy godmother, but it is a quirk that you are willing to overlook for the time being.

All that remains is to publish it. Alas, you are hampered with work. Besotted by friends. Drawn to the sweetness of the world and the consequence of its removal. So you shove that thought back into the filing cabinet of your head, and concentrate on the things which are more important at this point.

Time goes by, and already it is indecently late. You have run out of things to do, and the only thing that remains is to slump back onto the pillows and surrender yourself to the realm of decreased consciousness, but wait. You pull out your keyboard, log in, and finally put those words which have been waiting to be said into solid text. Already it has altered a little while languishing, and as you write it, it takes on a form which you couldn’t anticipate. Still, the result is not unpleasing to the eye, or the ear.

A click of a button, and your words are there, displayed on your blog, for the world to see and critique. Which is what you secretly hope the world will do, despite the whole “This is my secret and personal blog in which I pen my thoughts” shebang.

They wouldn’t listen, they’re not listening still,
Perhaps they never will.

Today

A thought forms in the mind – a suggestion, a claim. Much like a soap bubble blown by a small child or an adult with asthma – small, yet iridescent.

In seconds, it is texted up as a wall post.

A minute later, someone writes, “Why so emo?”

Another Revelation

I just took another trip down memory lane, by virtue of mishandled technology.

I now know that I was

An Absolute Fucking Bastard.

(The text above was white-outed not because I am ashamed to admit it - okay, I am. It sucks. - but for the sake of the kiddies)

Striations are not only on myocardium.

I feel the striations on my soul once again.

But are they new? Or have they been there all this while? Or have I, in my journey through this life, created them out of the mess that I have plunged myself into?

So many things have happened since the Celtics won the cup. And now I realize that I have even less time to blog, yet I feel the need to do so.

Maybe it was because I took a trip down that virtual memory lane that is past blog posts, reliving the typed stories of a boy, who now has to grow into a man, yet desperately clings on to the shreds of freedom and happiness that childhood left behind. All in a blog dressed up with a Sun Embryo, which I have yet to see.

Sun Embryo

I am almost disgusted at what I wrote. Some whimsical, some shallow, and some simply a projection of language with no content. I came close to shutting down this blog, like I did with the last. And the one before that, and the one before that, and....

I did write, long ago, that I loved this blog like it was a child of mine, and that is true to some extent. A child you create, you feed and nurture, you try to mould it to become what you think it should be like. A child is dirty, a child is selfish, a child is ruthless, and a child knows no social barriers. A child will present the truth as it is, and as much as you try to disguise it by dressing it up with fancies, the truth still lurks like a bad Chinese dinner ready to rise and deal a merry dance on the walls of the digestive tract.

And it is important that you be proud of you child no matter how they might turn out to be, and to show them to the world.

I am in a pit that I dug for myself, here at the bottom of the world, and if I don’t start digging myself out of it, I may never be able to.

Help me, God, lest I start breaking out into Linkin Park songs.

Guess who's 17 this year.