The Serial Dater.
(Saturday, September 12, 2009)
Balls.
my best friend's ex just tagged a photo of a receipt he found in my favorite bar yesterday in the table. aside from who the fuck looks at random receipt in a bar instead of shooting up alcohol, the fact that the city is littered with ex(s) affirmed an unholy decay in the city that i live in. not being cool is the new cool. it's puny, the fucking city, yet i have always get around uninspiring backdoor places (not gay club pun, please) which is reluctant to most. the invisible boundary which separated me from them so far is recklessly breached. does that make me one of them now?
the thought that i would bump into anyone is beyond comprehension. the city is personal. that's why i love staying in the city, there's always something new going on and i am and has always been far separated from the hip roller coasters of it. i go to the mall on weekdays to avoid the traffic. i watch movies in the morning cause i want to sleep at night. i hate places with too many people because people that are not my friends are just generally too tiring to deal with. but the city has room for eccentrics like me. a simple truth is, the city is a big fucking place and it caters to everyone without prejudice. and people that is not on the same mind train will usually not run onto each other.
my claustrophobia came has became a reality. the city is becoming smaller and smaller each minute.
Noise
()
it is perfect.
i do not recall a time that it has been so quiet for the longest time. there so no sound of kids crying, water pump, washing, cars, alarm, nothing...nothing bears a noise now. this moment needs to be treasured, for in another while, hell breaks loose again. i love the simple lack of intrusion of sound in the morning.
a little bit of rain would seal the deal. but the would mean the rain would crash into the roof and give me what i do not need, noise.
burger is not better than mango.
(Tuesday, August 25, 2009)
fuck.
last published in February. then my fucking life collapse. but who the fuck cares anyway?
xxx
the last time i picked up a sport, it was football. i fucked up my back.
then i involuntarily picked up car surfing, i fucked up my knee.
then after that it was fucking basketball, i can't fucking remember how many times i sprained my fingers, my ankle, my knee and back.
now i'm trying out jogging so that i can do marathon by next year.
i am so fucking gonna die while running.
it's the morning again.
(Tuesday, February 10, 2009)
there's not way that i can explain how much i hate asian literature. every single book i've read written by anyone asian, i can never fucking finish it. or if i did, it probably took somewhere around 6 months to a year to digest. and it made me felt hungover, bad aftertaste and nauseating. personally, i think it's too fucking asian. mellow and depressing. one dimensional. lack of depth. whatever.
in my very lack of exposure point of view, for the life of me, i've not met anyone that got buggered at a young age or a child that gets sold to a brothel masqueraded as a social lounge then falls deeply in love with a man that she claims she didn't have sex with. she's got dignity, that one. then there's this drug addict with history of drug abuse, and she tells her story with such shame and disgust. we, asians live a fucking tragic live, and there's no two ways about it.
if asians are what the fiction says we are then we're just a bunch of weppy queers that couldn't get over our chillhood plight. it seems like Billy Holiday's baneful existance can't even hold a candle to any ordinary asian's life. To us, Christ's crucification is merely as painful as getting an ear pierced. asian's woe hurts a million times more than any living thing has every experience. we are, the sole master of torment.
ironically, our romance with pain single-handedly drowns the rest of the numerous but sensational emotions anybody normal would have. hence we fail to live an existance that does not relate to agony. we're one dimensional and broken yet we could not understand or find relieve in it.
surprisingly, last week while poaching for materials to read last week, i came across a book, the cover was a sketch of a gingerly stick man with a slab of blood smacked right on where the penis (all stick men are male, mind you) should be at accordingly to the right human anatomy. i can too, be a victim of marketing if it's competent enough, and the cover stuck out from the shelf like an erect dick in a women that loves other women convention. as soon after i dug the book out from the shelf, i couldn't get my eyes off it. with the eloquence of guy ritchie story telling, localised humour which is can be funny too and none of the (asian) melancholy weighing it down. the author, Brian Gomez did pretty good i must say.
bullshit.
(Wednesday, February 04, 2009)
the sun is too hot!
he's not rough enough when we're having anal sex
the waitress look like shit
our minister is too anal (if you know what i mean!)
yank yank yank.we complain about every fucking thing there. so far, men (actually, mainly women) has always found thing to complain about. people who tends to complain are the equivalent the asshole birds who sings outside my room too early in the morning. they make a lot of noise to keep themselves happy but annoy the fuck outta every soul out there that is not them.
once there was this person in my neighbour hood that said my dog was barking too loud. i shut the damn dog up, you know give it a couple of whip and kicking. i bet he wanted to complain that i was hurting my dog too, but instead, he complained that my neighbour's dog is smells too funky for his liking. then about his neighbour's plants, then about my car parked outside my house. in the fucking end, we concluded that he is a complainer (or you can call him a neurotic moron asswipe too).
nothing can satisfy a complainer. if you take a dump, he insist that you wipe your ass instead of washing them like the good old Al Gore's the enviroment way. you submit to him, and in return, he wants you to fold the toilet paper in milimeter precision. it makes you throw up a little in your mouth, but you fucking do it too. before you fucking know it, he got a list of a 100 asswipe must-dos. what a fucking jerk! i don't know about everybody else, but morons like this, in my very humble and peaceful opinion, make one wants to fucking swing a 9-iron into his butt ugly face and tear the jaw out. ouch.
the complainer does deserve the baneful fate.
i fucking love rain, but everytime it rains, i still can find something to complain about...like now i can't go out for my jog.
change is for the good.
(Sunday, February 01, 2009)
maybe.
who knows.
talking to some old friends who aren't just about photography and more work does lift the weight off my shoulder, a little bit. in fact, it was refreshing, it was liberating. just like the good old days where my friends were fun to be around with. the good ones either left the country or became a fucking grandmother.
growing up too soon and too much, apparently. for the most of it, i was stuck with meanless callow conversation that had too much rubbish in it, or it was just empty, feels more like the music a person will listen to while driving home after a long overnight party.
the usually unseen few made the rare appearance for the lunar new year. the long caveats didn't matter, it was warm and familiar. then we blaze into a verbal tango, everything from raunchy details of our insignificant lives to indecorous theories to the secret of our being and our very limit is the time we could spare for each other.
ironic enough, to have few to spat such nuisance with, is in reality proved astonishingly more difficult than algebra equations. at times, i felt like precious time was robbed of me, trying to make new acquaintances with anyone. pretending to care or compromising yet another surprise in the forthcoming person that i will meet sounds like a drag of nails through a rough blackboard. that damn path looks dim to me still...
for what's it's worth, dismal time i spent meeting my good friends were something words can't depict. it was better than good, more than anything i could have asked for. i love every single one of their surfacing.
raison d'etre
(Saturday, January 31, 2009)
guys who had earrings are fucking posers and wuss. big time. and i can say that safely cause they really are.
if you have earrings and i hurt your feelings, i'm not sorry. that makes you an even bigger wuss than you already are.
awwww
matter.
(Sunday, January 25, 2009)
the hype of chinese new year is not getting to me this year. as a matter of fact, i was more inclined to storm into a seemingly dance of joy if the mac that i wanted was released in january (then mr mac hero has to come down with some fucking class A hormon disorder) than me going into fraction of that delight now.
as the matter of fact, i was so convinced that i needed a chinese new year morale boost, i went to buy lottery, simply knowing that another 20Gs will make me a lesser pissed off cunt that i already am. and also 20Gs could score me approximately 1million gallon of beer, and beer, ladies and gentlemen, makes a man happy. period. no two ways about it. also, in my humble opinion beer makes a person more svelte.
so i armed myself a fuck all look and the exact amount of cash i need to get 20 grants in return (apporoximately i don't know how much because i know fuck all about lottery) and walked into the lottery shop. i stood tall at the entrance along with the piercing fuck-off-y'all-losers-cause-you're-looking-at-the-cunt-that's-going-home-with-your-hard-earned-money-you-better-recognise-muthafucker! look. afterward i took pleasure perusing the place, it stinks of greed and expired cigarettes, the people were a wretched bunch. immediately, victory that belongs to me comes at a price, i just want to do my thing and fuck off.
the biggest problem by far is, i have not made any bets in lottery before. never fucking ever. in general way of putting it, i have a degree in fuck all about placing bets. stinker. alright, no fucking mountain is too hard to climb. assuming that i got my degree by being drunk most of the time, what how fucking hard could this be? all that needs to be done is to write the number on a fucking piece of paper, and give the guy at the counter whatever it takes to get 20Gs and fuck off.
today just re-affirmed how much god hates me. or love fucking with me. the counter designated for the type of bet i want to place is not open. i can put my money on something with a 20million return, which is ridiculous, everyone including god knows i don't know what to fucking do with 20mil, so that's down the fucking drain. NO FUCKING WAY THE BETTING COUNTER FOR 4D IS CLOSED. son of a bitch. motherfucker. while i was having this cunt of a time, i still want my 20Gs bad enough that it was preeminent that i shall do what xerox does best, copy!
copying proved to be preposterous. when i peeped at what the losers that is not going home with 20grants has written down on their receipts, they became overly cautious to what i was doing, returning an almost maniacal form of eye language. in the end i gave up. sooner or later, i was destined to get into trouble as there was more indians there than the first hindraf rally. big bad motherfucking indians whom i always am unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of their affection for larceny. fuck that shit. that ain't gonna happen again with them fuckwits.
i left promptly, unharmed, yet learnt a very important lesson in my life - i have friend that can fucking get the lottery shit done for me and i don't need to fucking go to that shithole myself for it. it's good to keep the tradition going, conventional chinese new year still stands.
