Heh. heh. heh.

It seems like the increased readership from last month's drama has become permanent.

Well, this should be interesting.

Body Image Issues

Somehow I am both buffer and fatter in a full body shot than I remember. However, standing in front of a mirror, I feel both undersized and flabby.

Goodness. I have body image issues.

It could possibly relate to why I have an instant dislike to obviously fat people. Ugh. Fat people with all their rolls. Disgusting. Choosing to remain like that is even worse.

I see what you're doing, and I approve.

Other possible headings:

Is that like, blatant flirting?

I see what you're doing, and I like it.

Shut up and kiss me already, woman!

More, later. Work beckons.

Is this it?

It's been a crazy week. Have I mentioned that already? I don't know. I can't remember. It's been that kind of 17 days. And OH MY GOD I have been working 17 days with only one off day. I had my right leg - from above the knee all the way to the groin - rendered useless after the first BJJ class. Today, I'm feeling the effects of a badly bruised knee, as well as discovering random cuts all over my hands.

Also, I've been operating on a very, very short fuse.

It's crazy how quickly the better part of the month can pass you by. The horrible thing is, I feel empty when I'm not at work. It's a horrible sort of quiet that you get when you're lost, I guess. I hate the idea of being idle and not, you know, putting myself to good use. After all, one of my personal mottos is arbeit macht frei. Which is kind of sick, when you consider the reference, but then again there are too many oafs who are unproductive members of society. And that - even more than a poor Nazi reference, is something that should be frowned upon.



SEX. The past weeks have also brought about instances where, according to my manager at the bar, there was blatant flirting. I mean, of course, I had completely no clue as these things always sail right past my head. However, I was admonished as I failed to offer my personal contact details, deflecting her queries to official channels. Well you see, I usually complain to her about lack of SEX - when the conversations at these food & beverage establishments inevitably lead to SEX - about my lack thereof the previously mentioned, um, interactions.

Well. I almost never understand how these things work. However, I promised my manager that the next time if some asks for a number or wants contact details, I'll go "YOU CAN CALL ME AT 961**064 OR EMAIL ME AT IAMAHUMAN@GMAIL/HOTMAIL.COM OR YOU COULD JUST BOOK A ROOM AT THE FRONT DESK AND I'LL JOIN YOU IN 15 MINUTES."

Yea. Well, as if the work environment at these restaurants aren't sexually charged enough, this time around I'm working with them liberal European girls who are more about SEX than I am.

Random guests/customers/cute-enough-not-to-be-considered-average girls have told me to my face that I'm cute. Which in addition to being false, was unnecessary and uncalled for. Which made it all the more pleasurable when it did happen. I guess the next time that happens I really, really need to go, "YOU CAN CALL ME AT 961**064 OR EMAIL ME AT IAMAHUMAN@GMAIL/HOTMAIL.COM OR YOU COULD JUST BOOK A ROOM AT THE FRONT DESK AND I'LL JOIN YOU IN 15 MINUTES." or something to that effect.

Because, well. You know.

Because, YOU KNOW HOW LONG I HAVE BEEN CELIBATE? What with living with guys 100 guys for the past two years, and these female co-workers who talk so dirty, and touch me inappropriately and all these impossibly rich and good looking women that I see every time I'm on shift.

DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FRUSTRATED I FEEL?



Hur hur. Perhaps, an overstatement. Or maybe not. Well, not really. Who knows?

Work, work, work, drink, sleep.

And I need to fall desperately ill, soon. I think I've been over working myself and between not having any rest days and not enough sleep, I've been flirting with a mild flu/fever for the past two weeks, even as everyone else has succumbed to the flu.

As a result, I've been babysitting this annoying headache for far too long. As a result, when I am an office monkey, the headache ensures that I continually fuck up with typographical and punctuation errors. Which is horrible, because I should know better.

Also, my boss doesn't deserve having to put up with such basic errors in language.

At the bar, I am granted a mild reprieve as there are livelier conservations (usually dirty), the promise of hot skanky sexiness, as well as alcohol-which makes everything fuzzier and so much more tolerable. Additionally, there is the hostess whom I am extremely intimidated by, who attempted very clumsily to pinch my buttocks before fumbling and dropping the phone with a very audible CRASH(!).

Also, did I mention that there is good conversation to be had when I work in the restaurant? I mean, just last this Monday I had a theological debate with this girl who is applying to law school. A fucking debate on theology, post-valentine's day shift following post-valentine's day shift drinks. If any, that would have been a fucking insane time to talk about such things.

When was the last time you had a healthy debate that stimulated and excited your brain, much less one when mildly inebriated, after a gruelling shift. I know I've sorely missed having stimulating conversations.

And, by all that is good and pretty, they are fantastic!

I came to the conclusion that everything is meaningless because it is all temporary. I mean think about it. Everything dies, and there is absolutely no FUCKING CONTINUATION after death. Science says so, and so far science has been right more times then religion.

Thus, I have decided to attempt the pursuit of happiness. I am fervently hoping that before I die I will attain the Zen-Buddhist type of enlightenment and finally gain the ability to disavow material wants.

I cannot continue to be continually annoyed with the world. Especially when I run on a shorter fuse when I carry this headache around and fucking hell I am going to miss BJJ class on Saturday WTF WHY?


Fucking immune system. If only you were more frail. I need a good excuse to wallow in self pity and misery.

Yea, but

Unfortunately, I keep myself very busy because if I weren't I would be absolutely lost, as to what to do with my time. Currently, I work two jobs for six, sometimes seven days a week and I haven't even factored in school, because I'm on break now.

And I never really gave it much thought until my colleagues raised the issue of how little free time I have. My standard response for when people want to go out and socialise has become to ask for a week's notice in advance, which is ridiculous.

I mean, what the fuck kind of person makes you ask for a week's notice so that we can hang out?

I should be thankful that there are still people who still try to get me to make time for them.



But yea. It's not good. I remember that I was extremely determined to be a more sociable creature post-NS but I think I'm reverting to the mad work-a-holic that I was pre-NS.


I will... Have to figure out a better system to fit in friends and optimise my free time, so I have just enough to recover from the crazy that is the world. Hopefully, people will stick around while this mess is sorted out.

I mean, the ones who really matter always have, and will still continue to...


Right?

-

Prof. Tangney: Don't love someone who puts you on a pedestal because they will end up hating you.

Re-blogged from wunderbarcriedthebird.

A couple of things.

So fucking sexy. Marina Vello/Ribatski/Gasolina belongs to them special breed of women whom through virtue of awesome, I admire and love greatly.

****************************************

Carbonated white wine makes everything better. Honestly, it does. And I'm not even talking about drinking copious amounts in an effort to attain shit-faced drunk-ness. Just a little bit goes a long way.

****************************************

Hello, beautiful. People might say you look weird but I think you look absolutely beautiful. If you keep that up, I think I'm going to fall in love. And it's okay if you don't reciprocate. Most of the the things and people whom I do, don't either. Just please don't be offended if I praise you.

Gem of a find

This is such an incredible gem of a find that it sucks that I didn't discover it earlier. Finding this has put me in such good spirits like you would not believe.

Hopefully this marks a new streak in discovering good music. Ah, one can only hope. Good music puts me in such fantastic moods.

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

Jan. 19, 2011

By Charles Warnke

Charles Warnke is a 21 year-old writer based out of Berkeley, California.

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

Lunar New Year

My life goals, re-aligned following interactions with other people during Lunar New Year.

Primary:

1. Get married
2. Have kids
   
3. Die

Secondary:

1. Ensure parents live long enough to see their grand kids
2. Make enough money to support family
3. Raise kids well enough so that they are not disgusting wastes of oxygen
4. Embrace death with wife

As you can probably tell, I'm a pretty uncomplicated person.

Things we said today.

Perhaps it is good that I am such a hard person to get along with. I am extremely critical and selective with the people whom I allow myself to associate with, and it shows. I have very, very few friends.

I can number my good friends with one hand and casual ones, perhaps with two pairs.

Thankfully, it is pleasing that the people whom I do call friends are of extremely high calibre. I mean, it is amazing when after resisting all attempts to communicate for nearly a year, we manage to get along as if no time has passed since our last encounter.

Het is super fantastisch! Do you know of people who after managing to be complete strangers for more than a year, agree immediately for an impromptu late night movie to catch up and shoot shit.

And yes, while I happen to be such an amazing ass to all my friends-disappearing and remaining uncontactable for weeks and months, nearly all of the work just as hard to ensure that we never fall out of contact.

It's crazy and wonderful at the same time, because it is foolish to put in so much effort with people who do not reciprocate. At the same time, knowing there are such people out there, fills me with such feelings of mushy warmth and fuzziness and fills me with the teeniest bit of hope for the human race.

It is a special kind of love that is reserved for these people, who are an oasis in such a terrible, terrible wasteland of dip shits, that ensures my sanity and relegates this horribly, miserable place of ones and zeros to a more minor part of my life.


Thankfully, the reality is much better than the fantasy, which is a lot better than many. And that, is awesome!

Haiku: Ribena

Syrup, as I pour,

thoughts of you overwhelming,

but then again, no.

It would have been just as shitty as this haiku.

Touching is extra.

And I forgot that if you put my name into google and click or hit enter and close your eyes for a fraction of a second to allow google to work it's magic, you spot this in the top few results.

It is strange that just as I had assumed that this had faded into relative obscurity, save you happy few strangers who have persevered with this nonsense for years, the worst kind of renewed interest was revived in this place.

And it is a painful reminder that even though I do not publicise this publication any more and had assumed it to be quasi-private, it simply takes a curious mind to destroy this happy place of quiet.

However, I still refuse to password protect this. Things that I really, really don't want people to know about shouldn't be posted online anyway. There's ink on paper for that. Besides, I am far too vain and have grown far too attached to this place of ones and zeros to allow for the disappointment of the loyal happy few who still religiously voyeur this place.

As with everything else, this too shall pass. And at the end of it all, when all that's left is dust and memories, at least there's is this little public-private corner where honesty is in abundance and unashamed.


Move along now, I'm juz minding my own bizness, doing my own thang.

Hana Hou

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