Category: General

We’re polar opposites, him and I. While I choose my academic path based on who I get to work with, and what I get to learn in turn, he bases his decisions on where it’s the nicest outside to get the next set of tennis in.

I spent the morning with my little brother trying to find him a laptop that we were both keen on. After much scouring around, we finally arrived at the uni’s computer store nearby where I snagged him a swanky new ThinkPad.

Oh, I’d forgotten to mention it here, didn’t I?

My little brother’s finally made it here to the States to continue his studies, and I’ve been spending the past few days with him getting whipped at Mario Kart (nearly laughing ourselves to death more than once), and being bankrupted.

Perhaps, the fact that he’s left home to pursue grad school ought to be a sign that I should stop referring to him as my “little brother,” but screw that. It’s still a few days before he heads down to Florida and he’s not in grad school yet.

(The only real benefit of hotels is that with the wonders of housekeeping, you get to spend even more time on your dark thoughts, instead of being distracted by chores.)

The true hallmark of someone who’s depressed is not that he’s often found sitting alone in a corner crying, but that he doesn’t give a fuck about anything that’s going on around him—no matter how much he used to enjoy the happenings or how important they ought to be to him.

Here I am, in an arguably beautiful city, a place I haven’t visited in over a decade, and I still don’t have the slightest urge to pick up my camera and shoot a picture. Or leave the hotel and go out and see, or perhaps even do, something interesting. Or leave the bed of my hotel room and actually manage to step out and try to mingle.

Fuck.

I can’t believe that even while travelling, a bulk of my thoughts are devoted to feeling sorry for myself; frequently going over something that could only be described as “bullet points in a résumé mocking my pathetic existence.”

You know, the kinds that read “Relationships: Two, failed. Miserably. Plus one affair with a woman who was out of bounds.”

Cheery read that. Fuck.

I don’t even see the point of writing this anymore. I’m turning-off the lights now.

I didn’t bring this up earlier, but I’m spending the week in San Fransisco. Internet access has been flaky, so I’m not going to elaborate, but normal programming ought to resume soon.

Peace.

Because I didn’t sign up for my current home for the next (academic) year—since I don’t intend on staying in grad school for much longer (fingers crossed)—I’ve been forced to look for a place to stay for the last few months of this year. I’ve gotten to see a number of different apartments, some very nice, others not so, but the process on a whole has been weirding me out; none of them feel like home.

I just don’t want to move. I feel like I’ve lived at my current place forever, and it’s home.

Through this awkward process, I’ve finally managed to find a place that’s not too exorbitant that’ll do for the next few months, but I’ve realised something a little deeper.

I’ve lived in Ann Arbor for all my adult life and it’s home. As overrated as it is and as annoying as the noise from the Art Fair can be, it’s my home.

It’s where I’ve learnt and grown and experienced what little I have of life. I just don’t want to leave.

I don’t believe that the transition to yet another country will be even remotely pleasant.

If I’d penned this the instant the feelings washed over me, this would have ended-up being a much darker entry.

Lucky you.

It’s funny, I always assumed you have to be leading a pretty fucked-up life—you know, a living in the streets and being raped every evening sort of affair—to contemplate ending it; and considering that an improvement. But it’s not so, there are a lot of situations “normal” life puts you through where you begin to ponder the fundamental question, “What’s the fucking point?”

No really, just what is the point of going on and trying hard and all that rubbish when really, there is nothing to look forward to? Or even if there is, it’s not worth it?

What if things aren’t great and nothing you can do can really change anything substantially? What then? Is it then all right to contemplate quitting and ending it all? Even if, to the untrained eye, your existence still appears fairly normal?

When you have nothing, little to look forward to, nothing or no one requiring your presence, lack the ability and the will to change anything, don’t really know what you want to give, don’t have a clue what you want out of life, barely live it anyway, and go by floating along one mediocre day after another, have difficulty separating dreams and reality, oftentimes not even aware if you’re awake or asleep, … is it really so wrong to consider not living an improvement? Why?

What’s the fucking point?

I don’t have the answers to any of these questions and I believe, neither do you. Though I wish you did.

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.