actuality.log

A sweet dash of lavender and a hint of fresh lemon—it’s a fragrance I can never forget.

When I was a wee lad, a distant relative of my mom, at least I think she was, stayed at our home when she was visiting our country; I think for the first time. Being the dutiful son that I was—besides being bribed and otherwise coerced—I gave up my room so she could use it. I don’t remember her name, nor her face or her form, but I can’t ever forget the wonderful aroma that was always about her. I remember my room smelling and feeling feminine for days after she’d left. I remember wishing for more as it started to fade; that magically she would show up from time to time so that my room would never lose that feeling.

That was over fifteen years ago.

Earlier today, as I was catching up on some reading in a park, the whiff of a woman tanning beside brought back those wonderful memories.

And the day has nearly arrived.

While not entirely unexpected, I’m sure it must still be hard on my parents that my brother too is leaving home to continue his study here in the United States. The thought of letting go of one’s kids to the big bad world surely doesn’t seem pleasant, and I feel rather bad for them. I know they’re old enough to realise that this is how things are and must “deal with it,” but I still feel as if there is something I ought to be doing to ease the blow but amn’t.

Sometimes, I wish I was more relevant in these sorts of socio-inter-personal situations.

A couple of fleeting glances followed by a “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” is the sort of white lie of a question I can imagine using to chat up an attractive stranger. What I have a harder time at, however, is conjuring up in my mind the image of someone else pulling the same routine on me.

I happened to notice her when she turned toward me for the first time. Curious looking, and her curiosity apparent, I noticed her steal another couple of glances before she popped the question.

I didn’t stop the conversation upon telling her I didn’t know her. I couldn’t. I wanted to know; wanted her to know. Moments thereafter are mostly a blur,¹ but I recall pang of bereavement that washed over me when it dawned on me that she’d parted, and I wasn’t aware of her name.

The pang soon gave way to panic. The panic intensified to horror. The horror soon collapsed to resignation.

Too busy dejectedly-dismissing the encounter as a cruel reminder of the condition of my life, it’s times like this when I don’t have much faith in second chances. The gods seem to have disagreed with me though, for later that day, I ran into her again. Inexplicably, at an entirely different part of town.

In retrospect, it’s no wonder why. The gods enjoy a good chuckle just as much as the rest of you, and know me better than I’d like them to.

I still don’t know her name.

¹However, I do vaguely recall getting to hear such gems as:

“I like the way you wear your hair. Do you like your hair that way? Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t wear it like that.”

(Imagine that being said in a rapid, pause-less string of words.)

I’ve been chuckling to the thought of this ever since I observed it during lunch.

Making out the entire time, this guy and girl had finally inched their way to the cash register of the crowded fast-food place. The woman behind the counter politely interrupts them, requesting them to pay-up for their food and proceeds to wait patiently. After some effort, the two finally get their tongues out of the other’s throat, and then is when it happens.

They step back, meticulously itemise who ordered what, and settle their respective tabs separately.

Upon completing the transaction, their faces get stuck together again.

Note: If you’re interested, I’m sorry to inform you that you’re too late; I’ve already been snatched up. The reason I put the pretty pink ad up here is because I worked too hard at the ad campaign for it not to be used.

In case you’re wondering, I’m updating the journal a lot more frequently of late because it’s finally dawned upon me that I can type these entries out on the bus on my way to and from work. Whee!

There used to be a time in my life when I could have a fun conversation with someone over dinner or whatever and make her giggle and laugh the entire time. (Not a particularly bright move when fluids are being ingested.) With the choices I’ve made, and consequently, the state my life has evolved to, those days often seem long gone. I barely make the opportunity to talk to anyone anymore, let alone get them to spurt their milk over my face. In fact, it’d been so long that I was fairly certain I’d “lost it.”

I’m glad to report that I proved myself wrong earlier today.

And now if you excuse me, I have to go change my shirt.

Would the pedophile in you like to see a little middle-eastern boy masturbate? What if he was jacking-off to incestuous thoughts of his ugly sister?

Would the pervert in you like to see a somewhat-attractive white woman pee? What if she was soaked in blood after being shot and making out at the same time?

Would the dirty-old-man in you like to see an oversexed deaf-mute Japanese girl strip naked and throw herself at a cop? What if her lovely childhood involved witnessing her mother blow her brains out after unearthing the girl’s incestuous relationship with her dad?

I attempted to watch Babel today; without subtitles.

I ended up blinding myself with a nearby pencil.

I’m uncertain if this stems from something primal—like a hunting instinct instilled deep within—but I noticed something earlier today that startled me. Perhaps the fact that I hadn’t realised it earlier was the source of my surprise, but that doesn’t matter.

It turns out, when I’m observing a woman and I’m gauging whether to approach her—you know, to woo (con) her into being my life partner—I don’t just go by how visually-attractive I find her. No, I’m constantly trying to gauge how vulnerable she appears to be; as if I were trying to pick out the wounded gazelle in the bunch, or something.

Perhaps a concrete example will do a better job of clarifying what I’m talking about here.

You see that timorous woman walking-by trying to hide her face because of a sudden case of acne? Bingo! It’s she that my internal meter will start screaming that I pounce on; not her über-glamorous friend walking beside her. Her’s is obviously a trivial, easily-treatable condition and it’s clear she’s super-cute just underneath. Plus, now with her “condition rendering her weaker,” what better a time to pounce?

It’s startling to realise that even your gut instincts require you to avoid the hot people in the room, favouring instead the easiest attainable.

I don’t know whether to rush out screaming “Eureka,” or sit in my corner and cry.

If you’re American, I’m going to insist that you take a couple of hours from your busy life and see Michael Moore’s brilliantly-realised new documentary, Sicko.

And then pack your bags for France.

(Obtain/How?)

I know I don’t have a right to, and it’s not technically their fault, but I’ve begun to get more and more irritated by my parents of late. I’m not certain where this is stemming from exactly, but I’m sure it has something to do with how dismissive I feel they sound when I describe to them the (admittedly meagre) going-ons in my life.

“You know that’s great and all, but it would be cool if you were married.”

Like every other person on the planet, I believe I am fundamentally different from my parents, and that consequently, they can’t understand what my life entails. It’s more annoying still that this being the case, they have the gall to keep calling me and asking me about what “I’ve been doing with my life.” You know what? Not very much that matters to you. I’m doing the best I fucking can.

It’s not like I can go to them for help in any case, because honestly, for anything that counts, they’re entirely useless to me. My parents have been “normal” for me throughout my life. They haven’t thwarted anything in any major way, but nor have they been tremendously helpful by opening up doors for me. Who I’ve become today seems to be entirely independent of what they’ve provided for me, or what they’ve denied.

Like I was saying, it’s not really their fault. There is only so much they’re capable of, and it’s wrong of me to expect anything more. I just wish they realised it’s not very different from their end, and they ought to stop expecting more from their dorky son.

If you want more out of my life, you ought to do something constructive for me. What? You can’t? You’re not able to? Then please shut up.

At least so I don’t have to fear you to the point that I avoid your calls.

It doesn’t happen often. In fact, I only recall it ever happening one other time in my life; when it got me into hot water.

I’m talking about a circumstance where you’re sitting there, earnestly talking to someone when suddenly, awkwardly, you truncate your sentence mid-syllable and stare absently. The most breath-taking creature you’ve ever seen just walked-by, and you’re immediately lost, staring agape; stuttering like Porky Pig. And not in the least concerned that you are.

This is the first time I’ve seen her in a skirt. That form-hugging, navy-blue skirt. Goodness was she captivating.

For every little boy growing up, learning to shave is a special father-son bonding moment.

One that I don’t recall having.

Or maybe I wasn’t paying attention.

Or maybe I ought to shave more often than once a fortnight, and not use that rusty-blunt blade if I want to avoid looking like a perennially busted-up street fighter.

As surprising as it sounds, I’ve been paying attention to what the numerous presidential candidates have been saying recently. This is surprising not only because I’m usually of the opinion that politics is balderdash and the elections under discussion are well over a year away, but also because I’m not a citizen of this country; my opinions don’t matter and the election’s outcome is of little consequence to me.

I don’t recall paying any attention to politics back home, but that’s probably because I didn’t live there long enough after turning old enough to vote. And often times, arguments about things I don’t care about were made in languages I don’t understand… or care about.

Anyway, returning to the U.S., what baffles me about the state of affairs here is how the system still manages to hold onto a (predominantly) bipartisan system, especially when there are so many issues worth arguing over. One would assume that these differing opinions, principles, ideas… would soon spawn a multitude of parties. At least, definitely more than two major groups. I mean, even if you just looked at the “hot-button” issues, there’s a good chance your views won’t align perfectly with one party or the other. How then do you make a choice? Why then would you?

Let me put things in concrete terms here. If, hypothetically, I had a vote that mattered, I still wouldn’t know who to vote for (or even see the point in voting), because on certain issues, my views line up with the Democratic party and on others, they match the Republican party. For instance:

I believe that the country ought to be fenced, and all business should be conducted only in English—forcing everyone inside to learn the language. I also believe people who’ve entered unlawfully, or outsiders who are generally a thorn in your sight, ought to be booted out. The last thing any country needs is an erosion of its culture.

I believe that the Iraq war is unjust, and puts a tremendous undue burden on the country. It’s not the U.S.’s problem if Iraq falls apart—does anyone really give a fuck?—they have to cut their losses and retreat as soon as possible, saving money and lives.

There is no war on terrorism, it’s a bumper-sticker slogan designed to distract the public from real problems, and an umbrella under which to silently erode human rights. From illegal wire-tapping, to the PATRIOT act, to secret prisons in Guantanamo Bay, you know things have gone too far. The people we’re supposed to be fearing are not as technically-sophisticated as the fear-mongers and war-mongers would like us to believe. Iran and nuclear warheads? Hah! How old is their nuclear science program again?

I believe in tax-cuts for the richest portion of the populace. They’ve worked hard to get where they are today, and they’ve done a lot of good for society during their ascent, like creating a ton of jobs for the middle-class. They deserve to enjoy the fruit of their labours. Besides, I fully intend on being one of these rich folk and enjoying myself some day; I’ve worked at it long enough, and the last thing I need is 40% of my income being taxed away to help someone else.

I believe in science, and that theology has no place in science classrooms. Humans evolved from apes as apes did so from their predecessors. It’s the way it is, and did not require the “hand of god.” Evolution is not a “theory,” it’s a fact. Global warming is not a “theory,” it’s a fact. Study of human embryos is not “killing innocent babies,” it’s exploratory science; science that will help you some day. Lumping all that you don’t understand under the actions of the “glorious hand of god” is the reason why this country is so anti-intellectual. And the reason why this trend has to be reversed, if the U.S. wants to compete, technologically, in today’s global economy.

I don’t believe in social programs like “universal health care” for all, because I know all this means is that the rich will be made to pay for it, while the poor will just sit down and reap all the benefits. That’s not fair. If you want your medicines, pay for it like everyone else. Or move to Canada.

This does not mean I don’t believe in helping my fellow man (or woman). By all means, support an orphan or three. I just don’t believe mandating it through taxation and social programs is the right way of going about it.

I believe that sexual preferences play no role in determining how good a person you are, and that gay people should have the right to marry and enjoy all the benefits married couples enjoy. Where one sticks their penis is their own business, and besides, is there anyone out there that doesn’t find the concept of two women naked together hot? Remember people, gay people includes lesbians too.

In fact, I strongly oppose affirmative action, favour vaccinating girls against cervical cancer so they can have safer sex, favour the death penalty, favour strict gun control, support a woman’s right to abort her foetus, if she’s talked to the father about it.

So, what could I do? What does everyone do?

Apart from starting their own party and declaring themselves a candidate… only to be later lambasted as a “spoiler” in the race, of course.

Update: Some of the comments below, originally published under a public domain licence, are reproduced from digg.com.

Hot on the heels of the previous release, we have one more! This time, things are fully scaled to the font size on the page. (Try it, if you’re using Firefox, for instance, use control+ and control- to see how the theme responds.)

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