"We're going down and you can see it"

I think in terms of too simplistic emotions.

"Johnny come lately, the new kid in town."

The years pass, but it seems like my capacity to handle emotions never expands. To be with a person, that takes more than I can muster.

But you shouldn't tell me things that I can't handle. I think I don't listen well.

But at This Time of Night

I think I need the presence of a person more than I've ever let myself to accept. Not anyone in specific, just anyone in general. If they say NS is a time for growth, then this is my incarnation of it. Emotional awareness, if anything. Or maybe I just need more surface truths to block these spasms of emotion out.

But if words fail me, then I hope my heart doesn't.

Things I've Learnt

Here is a list of things I've learnt over the past few months.

1. HR really is evil.
2. Janet Jackson is now known as "Janet" and she's terrible.
3. Arsenal still can't win a match when they have to.
4. I have a hollow feeling in my heart.
5. Paula Abdul's voice is strangely alluring in "Dance Like There's No Tomorrow".
6. I'm really looking forward to flying to Chicago.
7. I really want to stage plays. PlaySSS. Plural, yes.
8. I don't function well at 2.30am.
9. I love my parents more than I ever allowed myself to recognise.

One of those Sunday whores.

I am not the type to hang out late on Sunday evening. But when the situation called for it last Sunday, what I saw amazed my innocent mind. Strewn along the steps outside Forum Galleria were throngs of artificially big-breasted Sunday whores. Most came from The Philippines, I would believe, for the distinct sounds of Tagalog punctuated every artificial line of broken English. "How you do, Robby?" Then, artificial laughter. "Heeeeheeeeeheeee soooo farrnnieeeee." Then tagalog. "(something here)"

They targetted the White men. Better sex? Bigger penises? Bigger wallets? I do not believe that hard-up Chinese men - willing to pay thousands of dollars for Vietnamese brides - are any less wealthy than hard-up White men. It must be their penises then.

Whores lining up along Orchard Road. You know what the American Sailors who dock at Singapore call these whores, right? While their ships dock at Changi, the sailors dock in these Little Brown Fucking Machines. That's right. They're not Sarah, Mariah, Michelle or whatever beautiful names their mothers may have given them. They are known as fucking machines. Not just machines, but degraded as brown and little too.

I wish these whores had more dignity. Shrill, artificial laughter. Come on. Pride, you girls. But when I think of the dirty transactions of sex they have, I cannot but feel disgusted.

Asians, on the whole, probably haven't gotten past the Colonial complex. The whores selling a fuck to the White men probably are our finest examples.

It's a sunny June.

For a moment, I felt the burning desire to implant myself in his life; know every kiss he's ever had, ever last girlfriend he's promised not to let go. Then, the subway slithered into its next stop and he waltzed off into the distance, leaving me an onlooker of romance hinged on decided jealousy. I suppose that's the modern way.

Laugh, will you.

I love the way some newspapers described Adam Lambert as having an "ambiguous sexuality". I don't know why I found that incredibly funny. It was coy, humorous and cheeky all at the same time.

"It's Been a Long, Long Time Comin'..."

From On The Road by Jack Kerouac:

"In 1942 I was the star in one of the filthiest dramas of all time. I was a seaman, and went to the Imperial Cafe on Scollay Square in Boston to drink; I drank sixty glasses of beer and retired to the toilet, where I wrapped myself around the toilet bowl and went to sleep. During the night at least a hundred seamen and assorted civilians came in and cast their sentient debouchements on me till I was unrecognisably caked. What difference does it make after all? - anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what's heaven? what's earth? All in the mind."

And what's been going in my life, you ask? Well, back to the routine. To start everyday, I head into my mornings with the schooling throng, feeling fifteen all over again. Fifteen - it's the age of brilliance.

The sad, sad state of the Singaporean newsmedia.

Who fucking cares about Aware, who fucking heard of it before last week and who fucking cares what it thinks of gay people?

The local media only know how to attack three things over here: schools, gays, women. Grow up!

On Friday evenings.

I never get an overpowering flood of joy on those evenings when I get to go home. Instead, it's always the small things that bring warmth and comfort. There's nothing quite like the feel of familiar tiles under the feet, or the taste of water boiled at home, or the sound of my aircon leaking water, seemingly in order to spite my faucet.

Home always strikes you in small doses. And like all things precious, you miss it only when you need it the most.