actuality.log

Overheard; a guy describing his sandwich:

Guy1: You know, it had this, like, big, big…
Guy2: Slices of bread?
Guy1: Yes, yes, it had this big piece of bread and was stuffed with, you know, like… what does Popeye eat to get strong again?

At which point I burst out laughing right behind them, and then scurried away, embarrassed.

Fight Club is the quintessential “man movie.” You know that as well as I.

The reason I bring it up, is that I’m sick of lying to people when they ask me, “So, how is everything going?” I know I tell them over and over that it’s “all well and going just fine.” I’ve probably told you the same thing recently too. But in actuality, I don’t know how else to describe my state other than to say that it’s about the same state as Ed Norton’s character was during Fight Club.

This is a very weird phase of my life. I am disinterested, unmotivated, tired, unproductive, … and most distressingly, uncreative.

While we’re on this topic, I might as well get another related thing out of the way. I guess it’s that time of my academic life or whatever, but I’m often asked the question, “So, what are your plans for the future?” Yes, I understand I told you a lot of things and painted a rosy picture, but honestly? that’s a lie too; I just don’t know. Lately, I’ve been thinking rather seriously of getting into something totally different and selfless—like social service in some really needy place. I don’t really know what I want anymore; I just know it’s not this.

The number of unanswered e-mails in my in-boxes has been steadily growing for quite a while now. At first, I chalked it down to my general unmotivated state—yes, the one that has plagued me for months now—but upon casual inspection of the pile, I reached a startling realisation: Over 90% of this unanswered e-mail was from married women!

Quoting a scene involving a most underrated actress on a most underrated sitcom:

Newly-turned-single bloke: Was that a smile, Sally? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.
Sally: Why yes, it was. I only smile at single men, you know; got to conserve [my skin’s] elasticity.

And this, boys and girls, is roughly analogous to what’s going on with my reply pattern. Though I’ve not consciously thought about it, I just don’t see the point anymore with people I’ve deemed “occupied”. The effort doesn’t in the least seem justified. Yeah, it would be “nice” if I could be a part of your life as more than some arbitrary bystander, but honestly, it wouldn’t bother me if I wasn’t.

So, if you’re sitting out there all-eagerly awaiting a response and don’t receive anything, you now know why.

It’s nothing personal; it just doesn’t seem worth it.

In a message that was quickly flagged as spam by my mail client (probably since it arrived with the subject “EARNINGS POTENTIAL”, complete with gratuitous capitalisation), the chair of our department egged us on to actually stay in school. Here is the relevant section:

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, with the following education, here’s how much you can expect to make in your lifetime:

High School: $1,700,400
Bachelor’s: $2,700,900
Master’s: $3,200,400
Doctorate: $4,400,900

Since a bulk of my audience lies in the last two categories, give yourselves a pat in the back. And to the few chickens who lie in the third and don’t plan to attempt to reach the fourth, “nyah, nyah nyah nyah nyah”.

Sometime in the middle of last year, I realised that good hair days and good skin days are sort of mutually exclusive for me. After a suprisingly long spell of delightfully-soft and manageable hair, I decided to push my own agenda and planned on messing it up—in order to benefit other things.

And just how does one go about something like that? Get a crappy hair cut, of course!

And how does one get this crappy hair cut? Easy as pie. When the cute hairdresser chick asks you all-excitedly what you want to do today with your hair, you nonchalantly say something like, “whatever” or “I don’t care”. The operative word being nonchalantly, of course.

Never fear, the moment she hears this, she’ll go from gently caressing and playing with your hair to being the evil monster-lady who just chop-chops arbitrarily; almost angrily. Voilà, instant bad haircut.

Now all I need to do is wait for the second part of the plan to work itself out.

Site note: I hope that you’re adequately satisfied by the new underage-deterrent link on top and the related modification to the site usage policy. Proceeding further implies that you’ve read, understood and agree to its terms.

One of the many things that men aren’t really open to talking about, is why they want to break up. They just do, and that’s that; deal with it. All they want is to fade away—gracefully or otherwise—without overly analysing or clarifying the situation. On the other hand, the one thing that women most definitely want to talk about—and want to “work on”—is preventing such an event. They seemingly love to discuss (in excruciating detail, no less) why things are evolving the way they are, and present their brilliant plans to fix the scenario.

Let it go; he’s just not into you. And there’s little you can do to fix that.

(Probably apropos here is something I heard a comedian say a long time ago: “I don’t know how else to tell you this honey, but it’s your face. And no matter how much you run every day, it isn’t going to get any better.”)

Not satisfied? Does “I’m not into you” not work for you? Do you still really want to pester him as to why he doesn’t call you any more? Sure, here goes; it’s only fair since you asked for it (like a trillion times).

Remember the time you asked him if the thought of making love to you excited him? Remember how he deflected the question with a joke? Now here’s the real answer: Not once in his conscious thoughts or dreams was he able to imagine being intimate with you in ways you wanted. It might have vaguely fallen under the definition of sex, but it sure wasn’t an expression of love. Sure, he enjoyed the actual physical act, but in every situation, it was almost as though all he was doing was taking. He didn’t in the least care about how happy you were, or even care that it was you. He was demeaning, insensitive, and selfish. Now, this scared him, because in other instances—when he actually liked the woman—all that mattered to him was her happiness.

There, happy? Can’t you see why he might have had a problem with a relationship with you? Wouldn’t you rather not have known that?

Men don’t have the same sorts of inkling and sensitivities when it comes to relationships. But it doesn’t mean we lack feeling. We have our own mechanisms to figure out when things aren’t fine. Now do you still not believe in breaking up to be the right path? I’m sorry you didn’t get this verbose answer the first time you asked, but these are not the sorts of things which guys talk about. You pestering and acting all super-sleuthy will get you nowhere; nowhere pleasant, anyway.

Let it go, he’s just not into you.

Warning: Oh, and in the future, retarded comments correlating entries in my journal with Hindi movies will be deleted with extreme prejudice. Do not waste your time and mine.

Though the last post started-off as some April fool’s joke gone totally wrong, I realised that it felt so much nicer to write free-form and not have to worry about things like sanitising language for fear of offending the prudes. Every attempt I’ve made since then to post an entry on this journal has seemed so… contrived and artificial in comparison. I’ve ended up scrapping them all as a result—much to the disappointment of most frequent visitors, I know.

I’ve realised that I do want to talk about far more mature topics (hey, I’m an aged man, that’s what we do)—in language that I feel fits my frame of mind. I am thinking of an elegant way of letting people know that this journal is for mature audiences only. I don’t want to cower behind pseudo-pseudonyms or have to constantly dream up fancy euphemisms and analogies. I just want to pick a topic that’s on my mind, and say it as it is.

To this end, I’ve been looking up stuff from my host to see how to move my domain name behind private registration—so you can’t just “do a WHOIS” and end up on my doorstep. But then again, it’s not really lack of anonymity that’s preventing anything. It’s more like I have this personal filter. It’s like, I’m always thoughtful and sensitive—or at least always seem so and am construed to be—so now I’ve begun to truncate any feeling or thought whose expression would paint me in a different light.

I wonder why this is so; it’s not like anyone is judging me. It’s not like anyone even cares.

Alice is one fat fuck. You know the kinds; the morbidly chubby chick who’s unfortunately too “comfortable with her own body”? No matter how much people tend to avoid her, she’s always there. At every event, at every party; wanting to be the centre of attention, right in the centre of every activity—and the centre of every one of Jack‘s pictures intended to be of the beautiful people; ruining them. She’s bubbly, giggly and repugnantly confident, but no one gives a fuck; she’s just not aesthetically pleasing to be around.

No one, except Jack.

Though he too is often embarrassed by being seen out in public with her, Jack has spent a lot of time putting up with Alice. He doesn’t fancy her in the least, but he’s superficially very nice to her. He accompanies her for things when everyone else turns her down. He doesn’t laugh about her bulging body; at least not right in front of her face. He doesn’t turn away when she begins her incoherently-excited ramblings about one uninteresting topic or another. No. He plays the perfect gentleman. He’s patient, kind and treats her like she deems she deserves to be.

The only reason Jack does this, is that Alice is good friends with Jenny. You must know Jenny; the long-legged, doe-eyed, perfectly-proportioned goddess? The one with the smile so warm she could melt a glacier or three? You know, the smart, sensitive, adorable little thing who has an intelligent, thoughtful thing to say about everything? The woman whose effortless talent and creativity often leaves everyone in the room awestruck?

Yes, that Jenny.

Now, everyone is nice to Jenny. It’s not such a big deal—I mean, just her presence will make you want to win the world for her—and I’m sure she’s more than used to it. As Jack often tends to misstep, he calculated that being nice to Alice instead was a brilliant way of impressing everyone; especially Jenny. It was the perfect plan in Jack’s mind. Alice would adore him for who he was to her, and the bubbly fatty would surely keep harping about it to Jenny, wouldn’t she?

I mean, they are friends right? Isn’t that what all women always do when Jack isn’t around?

As it turns out, no. They most certainly do not.

Somewhere along this debacle, Jack begins to realise that Alice doesn’t advertise one bit of the going-ons to Jenny. She just sits there, the dumb-fuck that she is, basking in the glow of not being ignored. His calculated niceness has no bearing on Jenny’s feelings toward him. What’s worse, Jack’s now stuck with the fat fuck who genuinely believes he sees her “true inner beauty.”

Is it even remotely surprising that Jack soon breaks Alice’s heart? How many Alices will it take before Jack realises that the only path to nabbing a Jenny doesn’t involve any middle(wo)men?

I am right here, alive and well. I’ve just been remarkably unmotivated to write (or do anything else, for that matter). Over the past week, I received my new computer. It was very cool, but I managed to find things about it that annoy(ed) me, so I shipped it back to them to have it sorted out.

If I am still displeased, I will be sending it back to them, permanently.

When I first began to realise that this little incident was a microcosm of my existence, I laughed.

Now I cry. Alone, of course.

When did I get so picky?

Today’s post might seem totally random, but it’s a question that has been irking me for a while. I am going to make up fictitious names in my articulation, because it’s easier for me to express myself this way; and besides, it’s no fun getting sued.

Meet Jack. As it turns out, people around him tend to regard him as a good, patient, non-judgmental, supportive listener, and a soothing, steady shoulder to lean on. This in itself is not a problem, and is in fact quite wonderful, as Jack is a calm and caring person who enjoys “being there” for people. Apart from serving as a willing crutch however, Jack is an intelligent, creative person who happily goes about his own interests, but doesn’t find himself emotionally-evolved or socially-skilled enough to build anything of substance with the people he cares about.

Let’s now turn our attention to Jill. For the most part, Jill is an independent, smart young woman who leads a rich life. But, like everyone else’s, Jill’s life is not nearly perfect, and she finds herself confiding in and leaning on Jack when she’s down, because he’s approachable and his supportive presence soothes her.

And finally, we have Phil. I don’t have too much to say about Phil, except that it’s his presence that’s going to add a twist to this tale. As it so happens, Jill and Phil are “an item”, and they’ve been together for a long time. It’s just, Phil doesn’t really treat Jill all that well anymore; and this is the cause of much concern for Jill, in her otherwise wonderful life.

As you may have guessed, this is also a topic of conversation she brings up often when with Jack, because of the nature of their relationship.

The problem for Jack, as time marches, is a (misplaced?) sense of guilt that’s steadily growing within him. Jill is getting more and more cosy with Jack, and slowly getting more revealing—and he’s unsure if this constitutes some weird form of cheating. Even if it were, he isn’t the one attached, and it’s Jill who ought to feel her insides being eaten at, right? After all, isn’t she the one who’s (emotionally) straying from Phil? It’s not like Jack did anything special to get her to open up to him; he’s this way with everyone. Why isn’t she just talking to Phil instead?

None of these facts seem to matter to Jack. He’s feeling sick, like a witting enabler… like he’s the callous “other woman”—without the pleasure of any of the naughty bits.

The question, really, is whose fault is the confusing scene described above? Why should Jack—who’s doing nothing more than being the sensitive support—end up being the one with the sick feeling in his tummy? It’s not like he’s trying to ensnare Jill, or even particularly drawn to her in the first place.

You might know that I spend a good chunk of my life in coffee shops—kinda like an episode of FRIENDS, except that I don’t look like Jennifer Aniston, and actually manage to get real work done. It’s a sanctuary; a place where I can get away from it all, and yet not feel entirely alone. It’s part of my happy-place, where I feel safe and secure, right at home.

At least I did, until today.

I just got back home reeking of nutty-mocha after an annoyingly long time spent talking to this crazy woman. She’d invaded my sanctuary, and what began as a pleasant-enough conversation soon devolved into an extremely unpleasant question-answer session; where I was the one under the gun, and almost had to keep defending my life choices: “why I am where I am” and “how I’ve gotten here” and …

At the outset, let me say that she was no one to be questioning me. Yet she did, almost demanding responses, and I—the fool—tried to appease her. It’s never happened before, but I actually felt insecure and helpless, grasping at straws in a place I usually feel so secure.

Long story short—I know that this might come as a shock to the crazies in the audience—but hasn’t it ever occurred to you that someone might be single because they haven’t come across another person who truly excites, inspires, connects with… completes them? Is it so wrong to be picky, or patient? Why does it always have to be psychoanalysed from the point of view of being a character flaw? Don’t you get that I might just not be into the people you seem to deem as perfect?

Anyway, unable to explain any of this, I spent an entire afternoon fending-off one line of questions after the next, just waiting to get out of there and retreat to my last-standing castle; my bed where I write this.

Postscript: Come to think of it, she probably wasn’t all that crazy. Maybe I was just not ready to deal with the sorts of things she was grilling me about. But this is my journal, and “she was crazy” is the story I’m sticking with.

For the longest time (the past few years anyway), the range of my reactions to the news that my friends were getting married spanned anywhere from sitting in the corner of a dark room with a sick feeling in my stomach—moping—to feeling elated and joyous while I excitedly supported the union; showering the couple with kind words and thoughtful gifts.

My exact reaction to the situation was a function of my actual relationship with the guy or girl in question. You know I’d definitely be moping if the woman getting hitched was someone I deemed attractive. The same reaction was sure to ensue if I felt that the guy I knew was undeserving (unintelligent, immature, unattractive …), and remarkably fortunate to “land such a gig”. (In actuality, predicting “how much happiness he deserved”, extrapolating from what I knew of him as a child, and sulking when he exceeded my expectations; especially since he got there before me. Jealous, in other words.)

Of course, there were other situations—like not finding her particularly attractive in the first place—which resulted in a more mellow response. But, after a few years of artificially induced(?) emotions, I just realised that I am too old for this. I needed to come up with a more standard response, something that worked for all such situations; and not have to go through the ordeal of carefully evaluating each circumstance before determining how I felt about the matter. Apart from taking too much time, I was occasionally unprepared to stomach the starkly enlightening realisations that popped up while I pondered.

So, I’ve finally decided to go with a one-size-fits-all approach that basically involves the perfunctory show of support (the wishes, the presents, the smiling presence at the wedding …) while moping when no one else is looking.

That’s it.

You don’t need my blessings. You don’t really care (or need to) about what I feel about the sequence of events, so why would you even want my support?

So I won’t. Of course, I’ll look like I am, but on the inside, I’m not. And you can’t make me. This works for both of us; whoever the other person in question is.

Addendum: This same treatment will be extended to any readers of this journal who may be getting married (unless it’s to me). I’m sorry, but rules are rules.

You and I know that I have a penchant for dropping expensive electronics. But usually (always?), it’s something I own so it isn’t a problem. Broke a 3000$ sensor? Pfft, no biggie, it’s mines and I’ll breaks it if I wants to.

A short while ago, we ordered these workstations for the lab. They were these ultrasnazzy multi-core Xeon many-GHz processor things with oodles of RAM.

It is clear where I’m going with this story. So there isn’t much point continuing.

Update: But hey, at least we don’t have to worry about any woman who witnessed the sequence of events harbouring any hopes of being whisked away in my arms into the sunset; not without carefully weighing the possibility of a broken rib or seven, anyway.

The following is a clip of an e-mail I received earlier in the day. Oh the delicious joy of bending rules.

Relevant details obscured for obvious reasons. But plenty of superfluous information here!