Category: General

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.

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… a random woman down the street walked up to you and told you she really likes your glasses? In fact, she likes the pair so much that she can’t wait for an answer to her question, “Who is it by?” and literally grabs it off your face to check it out for herself. And check out herself with it on?

… a totally unrelated random woman sits down really close to you while ogling over your (arguably chic) green messenger bag? That she’s so engrossed by the bag on your lap, she doesn’t realise she’s got her (arguably wonderful-smelling) hair in your face as she’s bent over trying to make out the bag’s brand from its logo?

… you saw a cute ogre? You know, the kinds that are hideous and grotesquely-deformed, but yet you find something about their mannerisms that make them undeniably endearing? Like that grunt of appreciation that escapes its lips—alongside the flare-up of its nostrils—as someone offers her a candy bar?

No, it wouldn’t be interesting at all. It’d be weird.

Trust me.

Have you ever had that sickening feeling when you know you don’t want something, but also know that deep down, you really need it? It’s such a paralysing emotion to experience; being unable to move neither forward nor back, stuck only in the harsh realisation that whatever you do, you’re about to end up unhappy, unsatiated, or both.

I believe life would be simpler if it were more like fairy-tales; where what’s right and what’s wrong is starkly delineated. Without any shades of grey to get lost in, you can clearly paint yourself black, or white.

With me thus far?

Good, now replace the whole spiel about “being painted black or white” with “desiring women or men.”

Have you ever had that sickening feeling when you know you don’t want something, but also know that deep down, you really need it?

I know we’ve been through this a few times, but don’t you think that after being here for so long, it’s still really ironic that the only women around I find cute are so out of my league, they wouldn’t even be caught dead talking to me?

And, the women who really want to talk to me are so bleh that I can’t imagine them good for much more than a laugh… at their expense?

I really must rethink my strategy.

And, on a somewhat connected note, the people I’ve been running into around town just seem so beautiful of late. I mean that literally, superlatively so, and not in some weird way. At least, not weirder than having the urge to tell every woman you cross that she’s the most exquisite creature you’ve ever seen. And not be lying about it.

It’s like the town has been invaded by angels—the kinds without wings. Or perhaps they’re alluring elves without the pointy ears. Or perhaps, the town has been flooded by a slew of new fairies—the kinds without pointy ears or wings.

OK, I don’t know where they’re stemming from, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? All this means is that there is now an even greater abundance of women who will not talk to me.

I noticed her as she was emerging from yoga class—mat rolled up underarm and tight sweatpants on. I walked swiftly past, mumbling something barely acknowledging her presence as I crossed her.

A few years ago, I knew her name. And that’s not all I knew.

Today, all I could remember about her was that she was “that guy’s wife.” It’s almost as if nothing else mattered, and this was her defining characteristic.

Ergo, it’s more ironic that I’d forgotten his name too. All she was to me was an unknown’s wife.

With work taking up more and more of my time of late, I’m finding it exceedingly hard to concentrate on other things—including writing. However, being the brave soul that I am, I’ve decided to force myself to try this evening.

I have some good and some bad news to share, and I’m going to begin with the bad news.

Over the past week, I’ve been a victim of several counts of credit-card fraud, which has resulted in me losing around $1000 to the ether. What’s worse, this soon escalated to more of an identity-theft when random services I did not request for started showing up at my door—like that bright orange box with the Vonage phone registered to akgbc99dbq3 I stumbled over as I returned home from work yesterday. I am still in the midst of sorting out this crisis, though no one need worry; most of my money has been retrieved, and everybody I’ve spoken to has been very helpful.

I do have to deal with getting by without one of my cards for a few weeks though; it is being replaced with a newer—hopefully more secure—one.

Another scary happening—also stemming from cyber-space—was a serious-sounding letter I received from my ISP accusing me of some evil activity. I nearly cracked under the presumption that their stern notice was a precursor to some sort of lawsuit. You see, when you’re a poor student, whether or not you’re innocent won’t matter in court. You’re never going to be able to afford that fancy lawyer. Anyway, it’s been some time since this happened, and since nothing’s come of it, I’m going to assume it was some sort of cruel prank; and slowly step away.

Now, on to the good news.

After being ensured funding for a couple of years to pursue my post-doctoral research work at Cambridge, I went ahead and formally accepted the offer. I plan to finish-up my work here late Fall this year, and begin my life there early next year. I must say I am extremely excited, as the work promises to be fun and is right up my alley, and what little I’ve experienced of Cambridge in my travels has been wonderful. In general, the atmosphere is just so much more scholarly than here. And scholarly is good.

I think it will be a pleasant change to go somewhere else and do something different for the next few years of my life—before I have to pause and take stock of where my life is once more.

The prestigious nature of it all, the thought of being able to speak and write in real English again, the grand plans of using the U.K. as a base to launch many travels around Europe… everything excites me tremendously. But even so, amidst the goosebumpey skin, a part of me can’t help but wish for a completely different life path. One that’s firmly rooted in the familiarity of the same place for eternity. One where I’d never have to leave, abandoning love.

I know I’ve not been saying very much lately, but things have been going on.

For instance—over coffee earlier this morning—I was offered a research position at Cambridge. Not Cambridge, Mass, the University of Cambridge, UK.

Perhaps I will start pondering interesting things over there sometime early next year. Perhaps.

The software that I use to maintain this journal has a feature that supposedly allows some entries to be labeled as “private,” hiding them behind a password.

Somehow, using something like this seems to me to be defeating the very purpose of this journal’s existence. But at the same time, not using something like it makes me feel thoroughly exposed, making it hard for me to say some things I really want to; defeating the purpose of this journal, yet again.

You lose some, you lose some.

I’m so confused, but I’m contemplating trying it out. I plan to mark certain entries as private—probably revealing a tiny blurb letting everyone know what they’re about. And then, if someone’s really curious to know more, they can ask me. I’ll grant you access if I am OK with you reading the entry. Otherwise, tough.

What do you do in such situations?

It turns out, like most people, I’m hyper-sensitive to rejection. So when I was turned down, not once, but twice (thrice, if you count another minor sub-story) for something as innocuous as lunch, I began to panic, hyper-ventilate, and seriously doubt my abilities as a human being.

You know, standard fare.

Yes, the rational part of me could vaguely grasp the notion that she genuinely might be too busy to hang out—or whatever it is her excuse was—but as always, that logic was soon drowned by the emotionally-underdeveloped side which just had to make it all about me. All about my inadequacies… ones that ensured I wasn’t even enjoyable enough to grab a bite with.

Given how innocuous the whole affair was, I didn’t know this would get to me so much. But it did. Usually, I’m left to myself thinking, “If I do make a move right now, something will definitely happen. Nothing’s happening only because I choose to do nothing.” But incidents like these seem to tell a different tale: Nothing’s going to happen even if I make a move; for I am who I am.

I really wanted to write about something entirely different today, but I suppose this is what has been playing prominently on my mind all day. The thoughts returned when I ran into her at a time when she said we couldn’t meet.

She looked haggard and was rushing between arduous tasks—tired and spent. It turns out she really was insanely occupied after all. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself so I can go to sleep now.

Good night.

Often times, I wonder why we’re so reluctant to casually float down the stream of life. Why we’re so insistent on struggling against the current, lusting after bits of algae glued to rocks on the stream’s bed. We believe we know how delicious these morsels are, but all we have to go by is what we see from above the water’s glistening surface. Are we sure the grubs here are so much more gratifying than the ones downstream?

It’s sadder still to realise how territorial we are, squawking grotesquely as we wrestle to stake our claim on places we can’t hold; for the stream forever flows.