The Confessions

To Recapitulate

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 15:42:49 GMT

It has been a crazy ride since school began. So far, my university life can be summed up by the inside of the year one archi studio - where time seems to escape without a hint. You begin to discover that, yes, you CAN go without sleep for up to three days. After 48 hours of wakefulness, it actually becomes quite difficult to coax oneself to sleep. There are no photos to be shown. Just eyebags and a new-found caffeine fixation.

My priorites have somehow fallen into this order: 1) course work; and 2) everything else. Maybe not just that. I have also somehow ended up with committee responsibilites and projects on the side: external relations director, World AIDS Day, freelance writing, looking into some design competitions on the side, still debating model UN research position.

I am still not even sure how friends fit into the equation. In this regard, I do feel monumentally guilty. Birthdays slip by, and all I can do is apologize after the fact.

Quite frankly, I have no clue how else to manage. Everyone seems to think that I am managing - even excelling. The truth is, I spend every spare moment I have mugging, researching - figuring out how to outdo, outlast my year-mates. It may only be this glimpse that everyone else sees that compels me to pull a rabbit out at crunch time. I fear I may be running out of rabbits. Now, I seem to know no way else to live.

Mon choux is a workaholic. He told me today that he has been sleeping at 5am and waking at 10am to go to work. This, somehow, makes me feel terribly inefficient by comparison. His willingness to make personal sacrifices accounts for his occupational success.

Either way, I shall stop feel sorry for myself now. I have my health. I have my mental faculties. I have Mon choux. If I also want to have a life, I will have a life. Just not now. No time right now. Note to self: Find time to have a life. Hope I still have friends when that happens.

Kent Ridge Ministerial Forum: PM Lee Hsien Loong on Singapore and Beyond

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 15:45:53 GMT

Due to the limited number of seat, register at our website and collect their tickets from the respective ticket collection booths as soon as possible.

http://www.nuspa.org/cms/

Tickets will be issued on a first come first served basis.

Booth Details (Please bring along your matric card during ticket collection.)

Date:               12-14th September 2007
Time:              1130 – 1400hrs and 1600 – 1830hrs
Venue:            Outside LT26 (FOS)
Outside LT6 (FOE)
Central Library Walkway (FASS)

Please note that due to security reasons, try not to bring any big or bulky items as everyone will be subjected to security checks.

Day of the Event: 21st Sept 2007 (Friday)
Time                    :   7:15 to 9:30pm
Venue                 : Heng Mui Keng Terrace Auditorium
                             (near Shears Hall / Kent Ridge Hall)

(Free Shuttle Buses will be provided (to and fro) from 2 locations for your convenience.

Photojournal (New Climb Asia - Sau and me goofing around)

Wed, 25 Jul 2007 15:54:41 GMT

We are such camera whores, it is almost as if we climb just for the photo ops.

Me vs Sau Yee
Quasi thinks, "Like, yo, what's the big deal?"
Sau Yee thinks, "I AM tall - given the right shoes. Think happy thoughts."

Round 1: The Overhang
Boys, watch how Sau manhandles the wall with her grabby hands.
Quasi thinks, "&%£&!"
Sau Yee thinks, "$£*%!"

Round 2: The Drop Knee
Form counts, but no bonus for looking as if she's taking a poop on a crazy toilet.
Quasi thinks, "Concentrate! Be one with the wall."
Sau Yee thinks, "Hee hee... Walls make me happy."

Round 3: The Heel Hook
Double points for that levitating left leg.
Quasi thinks, "The mind is stronger than the hand."
Sau Yee thinks, "Hee hee... I'm happy."

Well, I guess we all know who wins. It's weird, but this photo spread leaves one with an odd craving for Cheezels.

I feel like smashing someone's face.

Tue, 03 Jul 2007 04:22:50 GMT

I believe I can take a fair amount of shit from people. I am quite use to being judged by people who do not know me at all. They can call me a slut. They can make any amount of false accusations they want. My friends and the people who know me best know I am not this figment of imagination these assholes have in their pea-sized heads.

It gets to me when it starts affecting the people I love. It hurts when these vindictive people start going after the people I care about. It tears me apart from the inside out when these outrageous lies affect the one person I care about the most and make him question my integrity and my commitment.

I would like to know what I have done to deserve this, but I know that there is no rhyme or reason to the actions of certain people. The rest of us just have to pick up the pieces in the aftermath.

I need to keep myself together - try to keep functioning, eating, breathing. I am trying to be strong and trying to keep the boat going on sheer will.

All I can say is thank God for the strength of my friends. Without them, I would be a ship lost at sea.

Photojournal (Yes, we look cute together. If only life were that simple.)

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 11:17:22 GMT

The Straight Version of the French AIDS Campaign Video

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 06:36:02 GMT

Photojournal (Me and O'Malley... and that thing on her head)

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 11:17:07 GMT

Just as I have always believed, a hairdo can make a tremendous difference - sometimes not in a good way. I cannot believe she paid some Thai person to do that to her at the side of a street in Bangkok. Get a foot massage; get a cheap pedicure. Do not under any circumstance pay a Thai person to put fake hair into your rather more glamourous Toni and Guy haircut.

Maybe I am over-reacting. She DOES now look like a number of famous people: the lead singer of Counting Crow, all the chicks in Four Non-Blondes, the group of Jewish guys that sang "Baby, I Love Your Way" back in the 80s or 90s, some character on Babylon 5, the blue diva in The Fifth Element.

Sorry, O'Malley - I just could not resist. Although, as a friend, I shall have to look past this lapse of judgement and recognise the awesome, intelligent, black-ass chick hidden beneath that Muppet-top. Love you and miss you when you return to the States - and happy birthday!

Thanks for that wonderful bag in support of P. Hilton and the more tasteful maroon Puma, and the free chocolate thing from Starbucks. I will get you another you-know-what the next time you come back - or a gigolo, if that works better.

Anyone who claims to not need sex is a liar, and O'Malley, I think you have sinned enough.

This is me desperately needing to rant.

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 16:29:06 GMT

You would think that loving someone would make the little compromises easier. It does not. It is not like in life-or-death situations when the pain mechanism gets re-routed. Some things remain difficult to accept, but you do anyway.

Mon Choux is working this weekend. He is juggling his numerous projects. This is me trying to be happy for him and his full plate. If you want someone ambitious, you have to put up with the workaholism, the lost weekends, the late nights. It does not get any easier, but you do it.

I have been supportive from the beginning. I have told him never to apologise for his work. I expect the same courtesy in return. This is me trying to be the cool, understanding, non-codependent guy.

I need my own life, and so does he. We have stayed in and stayed up late after a full day just to squeeze out an hour or two of time with each other, but we are just not the kind of people who needs someone joined to us at the hip.

Not sleeping with random hotties - that one is surprisingly easy. Being the level-headed one about the occasional melodrama or mood swing - manageable. Not getting to see him because he has to work - that one does not get any easier.

Mon Choux will be away for a full month in July and spending his birthday with his family. I cannot object to that. It is what he deserves. Besides, I will have school to keep me occupied. For now, he says I am his priority when he is free. Still, work is the eternal god and my own ambition prevents my tongue from any heresy in this church.

I guess I will have to get over this one. I may not be happy, but I plan on being the cool, understanding and non-codependent guy for a while. It does not get any easier, but you do it. Life goes on.

Photojournal (More of K.L. from Ben)

Sat, 02 Jun 2007 12:38:25 GMT

Day One: We make our way to the mystical Nyamuk, part of the Batu Caves, to begin climbing. Of course, Ken-doll decides to reveal the meaning of Nyamuk AFTER we arrive. Nyamuk means mosquito in Behasa Melayu - and there was an abundance of Nyamuks or more grammatically, Nyamuk-Nyamuk.

The climbing group: Sau Yee, Ben a.k.a. B-1, Ken-doll, and Ben a.k.a. B-2. On the right, me - somehow convinced that I should advertise the fact that we are climbing in Malaysia. I might as well have mouthed, "Malaysia. Truly Asia."

Left: See that speck on the top-left? That's me.
Centre: Close-up.
Right: Ken-doll and B-2 watching in awe.
...And if you have gotten this far without noticing the incongruency and going, "Hey, wait a sec. That can't be..." let me just confirm your suspicions: You ARE too dumb to be my friend. (Kidding lah, Roslan ;-P)

Number Eight Guesthouse: Our hostel for this roadtrip - where you can pay to sleep with a hot, half-naked German backpacker - well, at least in the same dorm as one. (You can steal his underwear - "Sau Yee, put that back!")

Left specimen features excess puffiness and evident lethargy. Diagnosis: Clubbing till 3 a.m.
Right specimen with cheesy grin: No coffee; breakfast untouched. 8 hours of undisturbed sleep (and a few uppers for the road).

Sau Yee climbing at Camp 5. Check out the money shot on the right: a drop-knee.

That would be me looking infinitely more impressive with a classic split in mid-air. Talk about spreading it for the camera.

Photojournal

Sun, 20 May 2007 14:22:23 GMT

O'Malley. What a prize she is.

Medicine undergrad by day; FHM girl by night.

Ben, Sau Yee and me at our gorgeous hostel in Kuala Lumpur. Yes, bed hair happens to us all.

Aiyah, some car lah. Exhibit A: Car with camera whore.

Sau Yee and the vastness which is Camp 5.

Me performing some rather unimpressive moves at Camp 5 - but check out those sexy legs.

Ben, me and Sau Yee. Saturday: Driving to Kuala Lumpur.

Ben, me and Sau Yee. Sunday: Driving back from Kuala Lumpur.

Beyonce - Ring The Alarm (Parody)

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 10:20:43 GMT

You Know That You Are Pretty Deep In It When The Last Scene Makes You Cry

Sat, 07 Apr 2007 10:20:44 GMT

Seems as if everyone has done this quiz, so here I go... bah-bah

Wed, 28 Mar 2007 14:24:53 GMT

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to good manners and elegance.

In love, you feel the most alive when your partner is patient and never willing to give up on you.

You'd like to your lover to think you are flexible and ready for anything!

You would be forced to break up with someone who was emotional, moody, and difficult to please.

Your ideal relationship is comforting. You crave a relationship where you always feel warmth and love.

Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment.

You think of marriage as something that will confine you. You are afraid of marriage.

In this moment, you think of love as something you thirst for. You'll do anything for love, but you won't fall for it easily.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

Why Do Bicycles Hate Me: A mountain biking 101 on Pulau Ubin

Sat, 10 Mar 2007 13:36:06 GMT

I am not afraid of heights; I am not afraid of the open sea. I am afraid of bicycles. Each is a movable pointy, prodding death trap. I have terrors of being run over repeatedly by an imaginary, but vicious, mountain bike and becoming tenderised road-kill. I must also hate myself a great deal because I forked out 30 dollars to learn how to ride one.

Dave (the prep school teacher who also lives in Dover Park View), Antony (who did the Singapore Adventure Race with me last year), and myself had signed up for a beginner’s mountain biking workshop organised by the YMCA and to be conducted in the rustic wilds of Pulau Ubin (read: muddy and undeveloped).

Antony had never been to Pulau Ubin. This was my – count it – third time on that magical island in my 21 years. My virgin excursion was only last year on the ADLUS camping trip (read: overnighter involving rampant alcohol consumption, inappropriate groping and nudity – or was that just my tent?). It was my fourth time on a mountain bike. On the second time, I crashed into the rear wheel of another bicycle and bloodied myself all the way down my right side. On the last occasion – also on Ubin – I attempted to swerve around a puddle of mud and ended up tipping into it. This time, all I did was gash open both my knees, so I think I am improving.

Chris was an exceedingly patient instructor and would only register one of every five faces I would pull each time he had us throttle down a slope or pop over some obstacle. Although, there was the one time he asked the group if anyone would like to attempt the jump off a curb and onto a mild slope that he had just demonstrated. I thought I had remarked sufficiently loudly that I would like to give it a shot, but he must not have heard because he quickly proceeded to usher us on to another course.

As to why Dave and Antony had signed up for a mountain biking course for beginners was beyond me. Antony (along with Jeremy from running) was, in fact, the person who had taught me to ride a bicycle a year ago, and before long, Chris had Antony and Dave following him down curbs and slopes like professionals. Then, there was the part when Chris and Antony showed the rest of us how to ride down stairs. Their front wheels would make a “cluck-cluck-cluck” as they hit each step, but I could only think of the “scrap-scrap-scrap” sound my elbows and knees would have made as they grazed each step if I had thought to attempt a similar feat.

Actually, I found the workshop quite educational (having gone into it knowing only a little more than peanuts). Chris taught us how to select and customise a mountain bike, how use the gears and brakes, how to go up and down slopes, and how to manoeuvre branches, roots, drops and (my favourite) mud puddles. I was, however, surprised that some sort of trek etiquette was not mentioned. There is nothing a novice cyclist such as myself loathes more than the reckless tomfoolery of other cyclists who have apparently been at it since their days back in the kampung – going about willy-nilly (and sometimes in the oncoming direction) with their little “stunts”. There were droves of these nincompoops out with their hideously unattractive girlfriends. (Well, I imagine having one's head smash like a melon would have been more loathsome, but I had on a helmet.) Nevertheless, being a person of remarkable initiative, I have devised my own rules of conduct, as it were. (These began as some fuzzy notions during the Adventure Race, but have since formed themselves quite comprehensively.)

1. When coming towards any human obstacles (whether pedestrians, cyclists, or children – in fact, the last in particular), begin to signal “Coming through! Coming through!” as loudly as possible at least five feet away, so as to give some of them a shot in hell of surviving and oneself an excuse for one's inevitably having run over those slower on the uptake.

2. When coming up behind cyclists hell-bent on throw off one's momentum – resulting in one tipping over or crashing into them – by proceeding so slowly that they appear to be going backwards, begin to shout “Approaching! Approaching!” at least seven feet away, so as to have them out of the way – or at least startled enough to fall over and onto the side of the track. (Either way, the road is cleared.)

3. Should one find oneself hurtling into a tree, a ravine, or some other painful circumstance, provide oneself at least six feet of good and loud repetition of “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" That way, should one thud oneself into a coma, someone somewhere might have heard and been curious enough to find out what’s happened in one's direction (and then proceed to pick one's pocket before calling for help).

Addendum to The State of Relations

Wed, 14 Feb 2007 09:43:55 GMT

Two things to do to seriously ruin a perfectly good Valentine's:-
1) Break up
2) Bring up sexual history

I came up with an incredible revelation on the bus: If you stick to the last quarter - feigning amnesia for the time up to that point - and discount blowjobs, you could actually bring the figure down to a single digit. (Hey, it's better than nothing.)

Throw in tax breaks for the ones that meant nothing emotionally, whose last names you can't recall, whose first names you can't recall (e.g. Armani guy), and you could even go down to five or less. But, why stop there? A couple more rebates and you're a virgin.

The tricky part comes when you try to define what constitutes sex. Does it count if he came, but I didn't? What if I came, but he didn't? What if neither of us came so we ended up splitting a pizza over a Meg Ryan film?

Don't bother debating this with would-be boyfriend, though. The more moralistic of the two of you will end up feeling as if he's having one pulled over on him. Avoiding or changing the subject also tends to come across suspiciously - for whatever reason.

Oh, and when you go, "Um... *pause* *roll eyes about meditatively* Only one," try not to give off a complicit grin, or feel too self-satisfied on the inside. The truth is, creative accounting is the opposite of healthy communication. Hence, if you're still remotely human, you should at least feel a twang of guilt somewhere in your being (if only in your right pinkie toe). Also, guilt is a negative and crippling emotion so acknowledge it for a second, then let it go :-)

Photojournal

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 18:04:36 GMT

Photojournal (A retrospective)

Fri, 09 Feb 2007 17:24:21 GMT

Some of my favourite accessaries:

Experimentation begins in university.

High-class call-girls.

Foreign workers at large.

My 9 out of 10 (but happily attached).

SC girls: Future mathematician / anthropologist on the left; future tai-tai on the right.

Another 9 out of 10 (also happily attached). 5 feet 4 of sex, alcohol, and "fiddy cent".

"I see, I eat."

Singapore's number one SPG in disguise.

The face of teenage prostitution (blurred to protect the guilty).

And of course, all's fair... so here goes:

How to travel in style.

Mummy dearest and me. We also have matching spectacles from Iceberg.

The consummate outdoorsman always wears sunscreen.

And finally: Location, Pulau Ubin; Augustus was here :-)

K. L. Road Trip: Or 100 years of killing me softly with Norah Jones

Mon, 05 Feb 2007 20:57:48 GMT

THE ROAD TO K. L.
It is Saturday, four-thirty. I admit defeat after two and a half hours of tossing and mentally running through the final items to pack when I wake up: toothpaste, contacts, wallet with Singaporean money, wallet with Ringgit, decoy wallet with newspaper clippings for muggers. (Wake up? I jest.) I leave the house at five-thirty and take bus number 166 to Outram station to meet Chuan Yew, Seth, Ken, and his proud little Toyota Altis with hardly any legroom at all. (Yes, I was indeed roughing it.).

It is six-ten. I am ascending the escalator to the taxi stand with only a sling bag (containing Culture and Prosperity by John Kay, my Filofax, and my passport and other valuables) and a duffle (climbing gear, toiletries and one change of clothes). Even I am amazed with how few things I have packed.

I get a call at six-fifteen from Seth, "We're at the market having breakfast." Why did nobody tell me about breakfast? Yes, I have been incommunicado for the past two weeks. Oh well, I think, at least I did not have to get up any earlier. I am not a morning person, mind you. At six-twenty in the morning, my repertoire consists of staring blearily into the distance and listlessly slurping my porridge with chicken and an egg.

"ASIA'S LARGEST INDOOR ROCK CLIMBING VENUE"
The drive over to K. L. was nice and uneventful. I sat in the front seat. With Ken gunning it at 140 an hour, I got over the premonition of being sent flying through the windshield in about, say, half an hour and caught up on some shuteye.

We reached Camp 5, "Asia's largest indoor rock climbing venue" (or a similar mouthful), at ten-thirty. I must say I was suitably impressed. You really did have to be there to see it: an auto-belaying system, extensive bouldering walls, simulated natural wall formations, half a convention hall full of lead climbing walls, and the other half of stunning top-rope routes almost twice the height of those we were familiar with at Climb Adventure.

It was a climber's wet dream at about SGD10 a pop and – with all those Malaysians out there playing Sepak Takraw or something – a state-of-the-art facility at only 30 percent capacity. Daryl and Tang from Malaysia's LPG (their own ADLUS) joined us for their own virgin climbing experiences. (Just relax and think of England.)

By four-thirty, we had only made it past the first quarter of the top-rope routes. Even with the baby stuff, you climbed up only halfway and you were wiped out. My first route left me rolling around on the floor gripping my forearms, now filled with lactic acid. Fuck me for not stretching first.

Camp 5, with its urban-jungle inspired bathrooms (How many gyms do you know have overhead cascading showers?) and hippy staff, was an incredible experience – and also enlightening about safety in these here parts. I asked the counter staff if they needed me to produce my Level Two certification (which I worked my ass off for). "Oh, we'll just take your word." In their defence, they did have some bitchy staff whose sole purpose was to make the rounds and shame you publicly for any mistakes you made.

SQUASHING THE LPG'S
Just when we were literally supine on the big, squishy mats from exhaustion, "Hey! Let's go play squash!" I do not play squash, but I do enjoy watching rather intelligent-looking grown men running about with racquets after a two-inch rubber ball, slamming themselves up against Plexiglas like drunk dogs running merrily into glass sliding doors that they cannot see – the way one enjoys watching hamsters in a cage. I enjoyed that for an hour before Seth and I had to get away. We purchased Pop Rocks from the convenience store and spotted our first incredibly hot specimen at a pool. (We would later discover that all the other hot specimens were napping at home in preparation for clubbing that night at La Queen.)

After the game, we had dinner with the LPG squash boys. Typical of Chinese on vacation anywhere in the world, we had dinner at a CHINESE restaurant and would subsequently have CHINESE fare yet again before departing for Singapore. Typical of Singaporeans, we would also track down the last Secret Recipe to close - as they were about to close – to pack two slices of cheesecake because apparently the cheesecake was cheaper in K. L. They were some GOOD blueberry and marble cheesecake – the kind of goodness found in saving a total of SGD 4 after circling the town and a badly planned block of parking for 40 minutes.

THE K. L. CLUB EXPERIMENT
That night, we worked off even more calories dancing at a place called La Queen. (I know; bad marketing slash plain tackiness makes me cringe too.) I must say the natives dance better than most Singaporeans, but it was a Saturday night and the allegedly hot club only ever had 70 percent capacity max all night. It was not as intense as I would have liked, but you know, give me a remix and I am serving it like a happy camper.

Seth and Chuan Yew would loosen up to it. Ken insisted on moving about so painfully and awkwardly – kind of like a steamed asparagus, but less fresh. I think he was afraid of throwing out his new hip replacements. At one-ish, he came up with some lame excuse about having to drive us five hours back to Singapore the next day and retired early. Seth, Chuan Yew and I stayed out till about three (When the goddamn club closes! On a Saturday!). We headed back to our surprisingly posh hostel, inexplicably named Number Eight. (Without an on-suite shower, I had to streak my way out to the communal facilities at the back courtyard in my boxers, but that's not so interesting.)

FINAL MALAYSIAN MOMENTS
The next day, we would head out of K. L. At another bleary breakfast (at a rustic little place around the corner called New Happy Town Restaurant), Chuan Yew and I had ice Milo's – which after numerous bathroom stops on the way back, our intestines would subsequently regret. We also spotted this woman who looked like the mom on Kung Fu Hustle. She had on what looked like pyjamas made of curtains that Queen Elizabeth had given away to the Salvation Army, pink rollers still in her hair and, incongruously, a Coach tote back with turquoise blue leather trimmings. This was in the middle of town during the morning rush; she was getting her morning coffee.

We passed through a quaint little town called Yong Peng for lunch. Ken had this crazy little idea to ask one of the townsfolk where Chuan Yew could get some egg rolls for his mom and we could have a decent lunch. Actually, it was a pretty good idea.

We walk into some provision shop cum travel agency and approached the most bumpkin-esque woman we could find, thinking she was the owner. The startled woman murmured something about not understanding. Then, the real shop-owner came in. She had on a black pant ensemble in midday heat – with a scoop-necked top and black bolero no less. Even with the perm, stencil-on eyebrows and gold chain, she was like the Diana Vreeland of Yong Peng.

She rather generously brought us – and personally – to an outlet stocked with New Year goodies. We thought, "Wow, authentic Malaysian-made snacks. I mean, it does say `Product of Malaysia' on the tag." We got a deal on the price (and two free pocket fans); we also learnt later on that they were made at Newton Road.

WHAT I LEARNT
Yes, a road trip is a time to learn about other people. I learnt that Chuan Yew is the kind of genuinely nice person I could probably never be. I learnt that Seth constantly underestimates himself. I learnt that Ken has a thing for the kind of coma-inducing, Dawson's Creek music that only angsty teenagers listen to. Well, I must say I rather enjoyed the parts I took in during the few interspersed moments of lucidity in the car (that frisky French model who sings called Carla Bruni, in particular). It is the kind of music you secretly listen to when depressive and curled up in a ball in the corner of your room, or when you are in love – the kind of music I would be embarrassed to admit to appreciating on most days. It is embarrassing the way guys having long bubble baths with pink sponges from Khiel's and scented lavender candles is embarrassing. (By the way, I would NEVER be into that. Honest.)

The State of Relations

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 17:00:40 GMT

It seems these days that one has to assume that the other individual is seeing other people on the side as long as one has not sued for monopoly, or even monopolisitic competiiton (or has mastered the ninja technique of side-stepping the matter when necessary). That is realistic, I think. It is rather New Economy-ish to remain a free agent for as long as possible. It is a bit of a bitch also. I guess I'm just an old-fashion boy.

Jin and I were debating the value of holding out for the right guy. Is there still value in keeping one's legs crossed and waiting it out before the serious set-up comes along? Is it considered in poor taste to give into youthful exuberance on the first date? Would one appreciate one's would-be partner more for not having played the village bicycle? Should one refrain from becoming said bicycle for the same reason?

In my opinion - and so as not to be a hypocrite - I cannot say I mind too much if my would-be partner has had his axles rotated here and there by other objective quality controllers. As long as he is in working order - no rusty edges or loose bits - when he comes around, I do not see an issue. Besides, who really has the time to grease up factory-condition parts anyway?

Somehow that reminds me of a conversation between two characters in this film I just saw: Slutty Summer (2004). The contention was whether or not one could consider handjobs and blowjobs "sleeping with someone." One character argues that, yes, handjobs and blowjobs count as fucking - but sleeping with someone has to do with quality. So five minutes at the gym is not "sleeping with someone." The other character argues that it is only "sleeping with someone" when there is anal sex - otherwise, all kinds of strange people could come out and say that they've "slept" with him.

I do not appreciate the way people equate serial daters with slags. Is it that difficult to believe that I have enough non-fuck-buddies to be able to go to three different events with three different people?

Ever caught oneself taking a whiff and saying "God, I just love the way you smell." - and that person hasn't had a shower all day - AND I don't even have a smell fetish. I think I'm fucked.

I Think I'm In Love...

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 16:25:09 GMT

... And his name is David Choi. From the moment I laid eyes on his Vlog two hours ago, I knew that we were meant to be. Even now, I have his stoner-esque voice running through my head like a melody. I love the way his Asian features barely register emotions. I love the way he's so Korean-looking, he kind of reminds me of Margaret Cho. I love the way he sometimes sounds so desperately pained when he sings, the performance can only be interpreted as pure sincerity. Sure, he lives in Orange County where Marissa lives. (They've probably hooked up already - he's THAT irresistible.) Oh yeah, we've never met, but you know what, love is just a mystery that way.

To view his Vlog, click here. If you're a whiz, you'll even figure out how to find his other videos on Youtube. To make it easier for the rest of you, you may view the accoustic version of his original song, That Girl, by clicking here.

There's also this other girl, Esmee, who sings a lot better. She's just one of those people - she's so talented, you want to kidnap her and lock her in your basement like a trick parrot. But she's a chick. What am I going to do with THAT? Check out her rendition of John Legend's Save Room here. Her Beyonce, Mary J Blige and Gnarls Barkley (yeah!) are crazy awesome too.

P.S. Proper entry to follow soon.

Macy Gray - I Try Parody (VMA 2000)

Thu, 25 Jan 2007 18:28:25 GMT

Macy Gray's "I Try" hit me so incredibly when it came out. I was a couple of blocks past puberty back then, so you can just imagine what kind of issues I had at the time. Who else but the Wayan brothers could turn something so beautiful and earnest into something so profane. Having said that, this video is an absolute MUST-SEE. It is hilarious!

Stupidity in Crowds

Mon, 22 Jan 2007 06:34:47 GMT

My friends laugh when I say that I’m shy. They burst, actually. I truly am – really! – very shy and very private. When I meet someone who is boisterous or incredibly oh-my-god (fill in the “oh-my-god” yourself), I get an immediate sinking feeling. I feel as if all the melanin in my body is bleeding into the ground and I am gently transforming into shrink-wrap. Everyone is looking in my corner of the room, but it’s as if they’re looking at the wall socket – not me. Don’t get me started – synaptic collapse, crossfire of nerves and sentence structure hijacked.

You know how this community is so small that you’ve heard a bit of dirt about almost everyone? I just don’t know what to say.

“Ah, so I heard you slept with John.”
"Hmm, are you really that bad in bed?"
"Hey, didn't you stalk my boyfriend once?"
(You did NOT just go there. Oh no you didn’t!)

My mama raised me better than that. Instead, check out my Golden Globes performance when I go, “Oh… You know John?” Well, fuck me. (Also, anyone with MY dirt, kindly forward. Thanks!)

Ever feel like you’re expected to be “on” – in a group of people, for example – be humorous, charming, outspoken, opinionated, pull bunny rabbits out of your ass or something? You can just feel the baiting. “So, you know John from rock climbing?” Eyes on, ellipsis – wait for it, wait for it… I’m thinking I’ve got nada.

No one can be a lightning ball 24-7. I love being around people and I love my friends dearly, but sometimes, I just need to switch off. Give me a couple of days: I’ll get bored of myself, and then I’ll be back.

Imelda Goes to Singapore

Sat, 20 Jan 2007 10:21:44 GMT

Brilliant video by BGT, an artist I met at the Singapore Biennale. For those with a soft spot for our domestic foreign workers :-) Loves it!

Photojournal

Wed, 17 Jan 2007 09:36:09 GMT

The Everlasting Twenty-something Secret

Mon, 15 Jan 2007 16:48:43 GMT

I turn 22 at the end of March. 22 is a weird age: you’ve hit adulthood, so what else is there? “You write as if you’re 30,” I have been told. What does that mean?

I am reminded of an Australian film I watch called The Everlasting Secret Family (1988). The film centres on a cabal of powerful gay men who support a secret society of youths, whom they adopt as lovers and become patrons of within this structure.

I have a group of 20-something friends, but not many. The demographic isn’t my preferred company. We fail in the conception of how 20-somethings are supposed to behave. We have been called the Young PAPs Club. We walk into a room, a club, or a party and we know what goldfish in a bowl must feel like.

In the community, the older male who sniffs at the heels of the next nubile thing that makes the corner is in no short supply. In my opinion, the term Dirty Old Man (or DOM) is a tad harsh. Not having children must agree with some of them: they are well preserved, intelligent, and near the pinnacles of their careers (if they have not already scaled the summit). You walk into a room and you feel them assessing you, discussing your potential, youth being some sort of aphrodisiac to their olfactory glands.

We play our parts. “You’re a partner at your firm? Wow.” “Investment banker? I would love to go into that.” And with the suitable dose of overawe worked into our tones, we gently stroke their cat-bellies. They forget that some of us have been out and about since puberty – but we are guilty of letting that factoid slide. I have a friend with a penchant for older, White men. If they only knew how intelligent he is, they would be terrified.

Now, I will admit to nothing, but I will present you a little prospect to mess with your head. As you are imagining us in Speedos and working out in your noggin a way to get us alone in your bachelor studios post-haste, ever considered that we might be thinking the same thing with you? We’ll let you indulge in your little predatory titillation, but ever wondered if we talk amongst ourselves; trading stories of our own escapades and making Most Wanted lists; sharing secrets and reconnaissance; keeping our own notches and little black books – making plans about how many over-35’s we can bag from this group? Food for thought: Who do you think is chasing whom?

The Confessions

To Recapitulate

Kent Ridge Ministerial Forum: PM Lee Hsien Loong on Singapore and Beyond

Photojournal (New Climb Asia - Sau and me goofing around)

I feel like smashing someone's face.

Photojournal (Yes, we look cute together. If only life were that simple.)

The Straight Version of the French AIDS Campaign Video

Photojournal (Me and O'Malley... and that thing on her head)

This is me desperately needing to rant.

Photojournal (More of K.L. from Ben)

Photojournal

Beyonce - Ring The Alarm (Parody)

You Know That You Are Pretty Deep In It When The Last Scene Makes You Cry

Seems as if everyone has done this quiz, so here I go... *bah-bah*

Why Do Bicycles Hate Me: A mountain biking 101 on Pulau Ubin

Addendum to The State of Relations

Photojournal

Photojournal (A retrospective)

K. L. Road Trip: Or 100 years of killing me softly with Norah Jones

The State of Relations

I Think I'm In Love...

Macy Gray - I Try Parody (VMA 2000)

Stupidity in Crowds

Imelda Goes to Singapore

Photojournal

The Everlasting Twenty-something Secret

Seems as if everyone has done this quiz, so here I go... bah-bah