actuality.log

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.

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.)

Download it while it’s hot!

Yes, it’s out now.

Download it while it’s hot!

… 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.