Archive for December, 2005


December 26, 2005

It’s a strange feeling, having to stay in camp: and I haven’t done this in so long, since late February. Nine and a half months later, here I am in the orderly room, trying to sort out my thoughts and to not feel so incredibly isolated form the rest of the world.

But it’s hard. I’ve always been a lonely person. As an awkward child I would often dream worlds up for myself, and retreat into their comforting embrace: the rules that governed these universes were mine. I remember especially my soft toys, how I’d name them and talk to them and wish so hard that they’d talk back to me. Eventually they did, and in manifold beautiful voices, like angels with stuffed cottony bodies.

This continued into early adolescence. I try to think of any deep, lasting friendships that I’ve made from that period, and I can’t manage to think of any other than one or two. I was one of those teenagers whom puberty took by surprise, and who never fully enjoyed the camaraderie of being one of the guys (see entry: gay issues). It really wasn’t until junior college that finally I succeeded in integrating myself into society proper, and reorientate myself into a whole new world.

So enlistment and conscription has been rather a blow. Just when I start making solid, deep friendships which may actually develop into lifelong relationships, things blow up in my face and I find myself losing the people that I love dearly, because I no longer have the time nor the energy for them. Through no fault of our own, I begin to blame them for this loss and start hating them.

Should I even be surprised? Isn’t it in the nature of people to drift apart? Isn’t life, as they say, like that?

I take things harder than I should. I always do. But that’s hard not to do, not when you’ve got such a short shelf life (or at least if society tells you that you’ve got such a short shelf life): and mine is nothing if not infinitesimally brief. Increasingly I feel as if I’m missing out on something: something huge, something amazing, somethat that could potentially change my life entirely – but I’m really not quite sure what this thing is, or if it is good or bad.

Life is slipping through my fingers. I don’t know how I’ll make my mark on the world before I disappear into eternity, swallowed by its huge and insurmountable weight, the deadweight of time lost and people left behind. Rummaging through the duty orderly report files I see names from 2002, and ask myself: what was this person like? Did he, like me, feel so alone and isolated doing duty on a Thursday night? Where has he gone? and I wonder if in 2010 anyone will bother rummaging through the selfsame file, the 2002 documents having been shredded, and wonder what I was like, if I felt alone and isolated doing duty, like him, and wonder where I’ve ended up. That I don’t know myself, but I sincerely hope that I’ll be part of the Stanford class of 2010/11, and that somehow I’ll be happy.

Is this it? Is this all my legacy (and how I hate that word, how I hate and detest it) in its entirety? Will I really have wasted two years of my life? How afraid I am: if I live till 30 then two years will really have been one-fifteenth of my life. Time that I could have spent making and keeping friends, sleeping around, writing poems, going to the gym, learning to dance, starting a business, perfecting a theorem of economics. Time I could have spent doing things that I wanted to do.

It secretly breaks my heart that all the army’s paperwork is shredded after three years. It seems like such a complete waste of all that effort. As if, if files upon files of ages upon ages past were put together, the completeness of human sorrow, too puny in its private ennuis and its personal trivialities, would show itself in its fearsome and mundane entirety. As if, by destroying the documents, the heaviness of broken hearts would not weigh down so heavily on those who trudge on in sludgey sorrow and self-pity, awaiting the day that their sacrifices (the silly griefs, the small anxieties, the sex forgone) will be torn apart and incinerated. As if to appease the malevolent gods of infinite unknown sadnesses with piles upon piles of paper offerings.


memoirs of a madman

December 18, 2005

It is 1153hrs, and after a rushed shower the lights are out and a hush falls across the entire building. All is calm, and all is bright: all, except for a desperately sobbing boy who cannot find the tears to cry, and he plunges his head into his jacket because the pillow is rank and reeks of seat and tries to stay the sounds. In his ears the uncomfortable earphones play the breathy orisons of Bjork’s Medulla, whose purely vocal tracks, and whose pure voice, comforts him with the idea that he is not the only one whose world is going insane and turning upside-down: in music things can be so right even when they are so wrong.

He spins and spins, unable to find rest because of the horrific knowledge that tomorrow the sun will shine again and nothing will have changed: until he finally stumbles onto a foothold of a memory which comforts – Californian weather, smiling faces, lovely fresh cream, anything – and steps up into somewhat-sleep, to await the inevitable dawn.


j the ripper

December 18, 2005

Today, I am a happy (gay) boy. I ripped my jeans and sewed them back together. So now it looks more grunge. I am in love with needle and thread.


December 14, 2005

Hi y’all!!!

How you doin???

I’m sick.

Love and kisses,
Sick boy


transparency is the key

December 7, 2005

Dear Diary,

So that day after leaving camp for my medical appointment, I decide to have lunch at this strange coffeeshoppy place behind my house, which sells economical rice. As you know, economical rice, or as the Hokkien side (a bit like my Sudanese side, but Chinese) of me would like to call it, chye png, is the perfect food like ever for ditherers like myself who can’t decide if they want something rice-y or something meat-y or something vegetable-y. Cos like, economical rice is all three! And stuff. And yeah, it’s supposed to be economical so it’s easy on my post salty-tequila binge.

Well, turns out that this economical rice stall does serve like the best spicy fish and the best sweet-sour pork like ever in the history of economical rice, and economical rice has a long history. So I decide to go for a two-veg-one-meat combination, with the meat being the sweet-sour pork. Which rocks. But that’s not the point. So after footing my bill, which is two-fifty (and very reasonable) I decide that the piece of pork they give me is far too small, so I tell the auntie to add one more fish. And she’s like, ok, and she does. And I’m like, how much is it? And she’s like, ok that’s a buck. So I pass her my dollar coin, upon which she arrests herself and consults with the senior aunty at the stall, whom I assume to be some economical-rice-guru, or the head chef at this stall.

Suddenly she goes, sorry, that’s one-fifty. And I’m like, WTF! One-freakin’-fifty for a piece of bloody fish! I nearly flip her the finger and tell her to keep her economical fucking rice. But being the nice person that I am, and stuff like that, I smile politely and cough up another fifty cents. Well technically I take back the dollar coin and give her a two dollar note and she returns me a fifty cent coin, so now I have TWO FUCKING COINS so what the fuck.

But that’s not the bloody point, even though I FUCKING HATE CARRYING BLOODY COINS. The point is, WTF! What the hell are these economical rice stalls doing? Fucking hell, when I eat economical rice, I WANT TO KNOW WHAT I’M PAYING FOR. No sir, none of that indecipherable one-meat-two-veg two-meat-one-veg two-meat-two-veg three-meat-no-veg kind of combination for me, I WANT TO KNOW EXACTLY WHAT EVERYTHING ON MY PLATE COSTS.

So I paid two-fifty for my original meal, which was exactly this: one sweet-sour pork, one egg, one stirfried chinese cabbage and of course rice. And working it out in my mind, I find myself unable to come to any conclusion about how the costing works. Like working around the meat base of one-fifty (like my fish), that should leave the egg+cabbage+rice combi costing one buck. So is the egg fifty cents, and the cabbage fifty cents, and the rice free? WTF! And WHAT THE HELL IS EGG? IS IT MEAT OR IS IT VEG? Ok, so it’s produced from an animal, like meat. But it has no motion of its own, like veg. So when I order one-meat-two-veg, does egg count as a veg? What about tofu? That’s not a veg, is it? It’s packed full of protein, like meat. But it’s made from plants, like veg. And why the fuck is the rice free? Or does it cost thirty cents? Or do these things have no cost in their own but you have to buy them as a x-meat-x-veg combination, where x is a positive integer?

WTF IS UP WITH THESE ECONOMICAL RICE SELLERS!? Are they trying to confuse us to death?

So yes, this is my point: I WANT MORE BLOODY TRANSPARENCY IN ECONOMICAL RICE STALLS. (Even their Malay counterparts, the nasi padang stalls.) Before I start calling the damn auditors in. Before I phone the police. Before the economy collapses due to OPAQUE ECONOMICAL RICE STALL PRACTICES. That’s it, I’m blowing the whistle! Heard me? WHY IS THE GOVERNMENT NOT DOING ANYTHING ABOUT THIS SERIOUS ISSUE?!

Oh. They were too busy executing drug traffickers.

Signing off,

A very unhappy economical rice eater who likes his sweet-sour pork and spicy fish ECONOMICAL


my clubbing escapade! ohmygod i’m so cool!

December 5, 2005

Dear Diary,

Wow! Saturday’s party at ChinaBlack was so fun! I can’t believe that I nearly missed it in favour of clubbing at somewhere more upmarket, like Happy.

When I arrived, I knew immediately that it’d be a blast. I mean, the ugly bouncer lady thing was so unfriendly and snappy, which like as we all know is criteria number 1 for a cool club. I mean, that’s how you know a club is sizzling, like from how rude their bouncers are! It means that the club is full of A-listers and cool people that if you don’t fit the standard of swank you’re without dignity and don’t deserve to live. That’s so Paris Hilton. That’s so hot. The club is too cool to even employ semi-polite bouncers (they don’t even speak coherently, let alone politely, and we all know that saying something incomprehensible so like fetch), and I mean, like, why tell people that they can’t enter a club when you can merely grunt at them and expect them to get what you’re saying and when they don’t raise your voice and make warning noises? I mean, communication is so last season. Hell, it went out with the unilateral invasion of Iraq.

OMG. You so totally have to check out what people wear in this club. Okay, so I got bounced because I was wearing my fab tank and that wasn’t formal enough for such a cool club, but I borrowed my friend’s frumpish large top to please the bouncer lady, and fit right in! Get it? OVERSIZED T-SHIRTS ARE BACK, ESPECIALLY ON PETITE CHINESE MEN! Because, you know, there’s nothing hotter than Chinese men trying to look black with their baggy clothes and baggy jeans and bling bling bling. God, the boys at ChinaBlack really dress to kill, which is really what you must expect from such a uber-cool club.

The drinks were amazing. I really think that they’ve got the Atkins fad right on, cos the carbos aren’t a-loading! I mean, why bother with rum and coke, when you can serve COKE and coke, and ditch the calories from the alcohol. (Which, by the way, a lot of people there needed. Oh my god, what a smart club!) And the 6 tequila shots that I bought! New recipe, I guess, cos this time around they were more salt than tequila. Great cure for water retention, that! And, you know, the lemon slice was not so much a slice as a wedge, so yeah! Man, after imbibing all that salt, you need the lemon to shock your brain into submission. Tequila shots are HOT. And at 5 bucks a shot, they were such hot value for money. Cos salt is a precious commodity, y’all, it was used as currency in ancient China. Or something.

Don’t get me started on the music. They played so much rap at the end of it I felt like a fat black momma through and through. Heck, I even started channelling the spirit of Mariah and started calling everyone ma’homies. And yeah, when the rap stopped, it was like, Jon Bon Jovi, cos that’s so hot! It’s like, so in now to be doing your own thang cos it’s your own life and it’s now or never. And the DJ was so clever-clever avant-garde, cos the music was so experimental: why bother transitting through songs, when you can just press the ‘next’ button, like on a CD player? And is there anything MORE fashionable than disrupting the flow of the beat by stopping the music so people can sing along? It’s like making our own music! HOT. And yeah, who needs a ‘dance’ beat when you can have ‘writhe somewhat rhythmically and sporadically with the hips and shoulders uncoordinated and the arms flying everywhere in a random fashion’ beat?

God, what I learnt so much about fashion at the club, I have to say this: that there are only a few basic types of clubwear for girls which must be adhered to at all cost:
– the flowy top short skirt
– the oriental top short skirt
– the retro top short skirt
– the black to short skirt
– people are fat.
I know that the last one isn’t a type of clubwear, but still. Note to self: if you ever put on 50 pounds and get a sex change, it’s okay but you have to validate yourself by wearing something patterned and loud and let boys touch you in weird places, like the labia.

God, is there ANYTHING sexier than underage smoking? Okay except for the scowly-aloof faces that the undearge smokers all sport. Er wait, no, scratch that: because underage clubbing NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER NEVER EVER EVER occurs in a club of such stringent and high standards as ChinaBlack with their super bouncers! No, nope, no sir! NO UNDERAGE CLUBBING HERE. Because ChinaBlack is a club for the cool and mature. Uh-huh, that’s right, you heard me. The cool and mature clubbers. Okay by clubber I really mean ‘stand-around-looking-cool-and-when-people-are-actually-dancing-assume-they’re-gay-and-bash-them’-er, but then again being specific is so uncool and takes too long so we should just say ‘clubber’.

Whee!!! Kisses to all my lovely young friends who don’t know better and continue to endure verbal abuse in the mistaken idea that impoliteness=coolness, which is like so fetch, in a non-ahbeng, non-unfashionable, non-non-fun, non-get-thee-to-a-nunnery, non-bad-music, non-young-but-trying-to-act-older kind of way,

and signing off,

One Satisfied Clubber in the non-unhappening, non-no-variety, non-uninteresting, non-insipid, non-hung-up-over-trying-to-look-cool-to-actually-have-any-fun, non gay, non-non-non-non-non-non-un-un-non-un-nonsensical Singapore club scene!!!!!