Brutal Honesty

There are some people who wield bluntness as a tool to stroke their self-esteem. More often than not, these people possess rock-bottom self-esteem to begin with, and the only way for them to boost their ego is by lashing out at everybody and anybody, but especially so at those who believe in themselves with a confidence that these people can only envy from a side. Hence, blutness becomes their flimsy shield and blunt - quite literally - sword, which they then lash impulsively in all directions against everybody in the most uncalled for, unnecessary, unjustified ways.

Then, there are some who use bluntness as a good sculptor would wield his sharp carving tools. I'd like to call this tool brutal honesty, a medicine which may cause a wound to sear at a higher intensity of pain than bluntness, but only to heal and mend a lack.

I have met many of such people, from both groups. I acknowledge that the first group have helped me, somehow, in learning to not care, or at the least, care less. But it is the second group for which I am very grateful. I hope you guys know who you are, and to name a few, Daddy, Mommy, Jie, John. I really appreciate the fact that praise is only given when it is truly deserved, but encouragement is in ready supply at all times. In your brutal honesty, you have been very kind to me.

Love,

Tessa

Where is my thumbdrive?

Somebody please tell me, please return it to me.

How could this happen?

How could I have been so careless?

So I came back empty handed from the HSS FAL and office today and Hwee Hsia, Lynn, J, Chee Seng and Wai Ji for lunch. As great as my company was, I was still harbouring that horrible sense of dread and self-flagellating guilt, such that I hopped onto the cheap thrill bandwagon - think, a bowl of dry yong tau foo smothered with ladles of sauce. Goodness, typing this now just makes me feel even more stupid. Comforting myself over the loss of an expensive thumbdrive with a portion of Canteen B quality food (think: we're only there because we don't have time to go elsewhere).

Anyway, I decided to venture for a 40cents a piece item (double whammy indeed. My cheap thrill was really cheap) and would have settled for the fried wonton (oh goodness. Double irony!) if not for the huge ball of fried mass that caught my eye. So yes, I went for that huge mass of deep fried goodness, the last item after scooping a hard boiled egg into my bowl, only to discover that the former was indeed an egg too, wrapped in a thick coating of fried batter.

Kena Jacked.

Its over for now

I have finished my last paper (is there any symbol which would be the equivalent of combing a fullstop wth an exclamation mark and a question mark at the same time?)

Somehow I felt a distinct sadness stab at me once the mechanicised voice chiming 'you may leave the hall' rang this time. I had heard that phrase 14 times before, but today, the 15th was just incredibly poignant. In fact, I even thought the voice sounded sad. So, after the exam, I walked down to Popular to get a roll of PVC wrap and bought myself a packet of MnMs too. I kept telling myself not to get any food from Popular bookstore, cause nobody else does and whatever is n the food rack is bound to be at least 2 years old, or even if it were younger, taste like it were that old. And I was right. Bland chocolate encased around peanuts that were not crunchy, but not even soft. They were simply, tasteless.

Now, I wonder if I looked silly hauling that PVC wrap all the way home without a plastic bag. Or would it have looked worse if I had used a plastic bag?

Anyway, I shall give myself a lot of things to do during this holiday break, though work is not one of them. My head tells me to go to the gym, now. Just 2 minutes ago it was telling me to go to the gym instead of blog, but here I am, to pen my thoughts and post pictures of some glorious food I had a few days ago:

Tender, tasty jiu he, fresh and crispy kangkong and beansprouts soaked in a tangy spicy and sweet broth and topped with crunchy peanuts. $2!

The best ngoh hiang I've ever eaten! Everything about this plate of deep fried Teochew style fritters was excellent, and the hae pia stayed crispy throughout the 2 bowls of sauce I went through (2nd one was topped up for free).
And it was served piping hot, from this stall in Chinatown.

I must go back again. The food there is awesome, and the atmosphere a blast!

Now that I've come to the end of this post, my head is yelling at me to put on my jogging shoes, but my eyes are telling me to just, sleep. What would I do when I get away from the computer? I will find out soon enough.

Good Girls don't actually want Bad Boys

The notion 'Good Girls want Bad Boys' has been explored, condemned, and fantasized by the media, parents, good girls and bad boys alike. As a 'good girl' - or at least, this is what most of society, parents notwithstanding, tell me, I sometimes find myself embracing this forbidden fruit. Here are my thoughts on this paradox.

Ironic as this may seem, I have never even come close, let alone be with, a bad boy. I may have dated once, but that brief stint was with a goody-two-shoes nonetheless. So, why, do I keep reaching for the forbidden fruit?

Let's conveniently blame it on the media. Movies - money spinning engines that feed off human desire - grab the foul-mouthed, smoking, vulgarity-spewing thug off the street, put him under the hands of a stylist, hairstylist, make up artist, plastic surgeon etc., then throw him back where he came from.

The media knows all too well that girls, even good girls, swoon at the sight of sauve men. I am no exception. Hence, good girls, most of the time, hanker after a skewed image of badboys, instead of the real deal. This explains why, while I am dying to watch Crows Zero II, I still scoff at the sight of ah bengs smoking and getting drunk during school hours at the void deck.

So yes, I'm already 20. I've seen what bad boys are really like, and I'm a mass communications student no doubt. Yet, why am I still attracted to bad boys?

This begs the question, Do good girls really want bad boys?

Let's answer it this way, What do bad boys have that good boys do not?

Bad boys have less of a legal income, probably would not be able to afford proper housing, lack manners of all sorts, waste money on cigarettes and cheap bear.

Yet, they enjoy leadership in a very different sense of the word, do not experience or care about curfews, ride flashy bikes, have the freedom to say and do anything they want, just to name a few.

There you've got it. Good girls 'want' bad boys because they represent the side of life which they never had the opportunity to experience. Hence, good girls do not actually want bad boys, what they want is the life these bad boys have.

Oppressed inside every curfew-abiding good girl who tries everyday to please her parents is the desire to to do break the rules. Outwardly, she cannot express this deviance since it has already been instilled in her that it is a grave sin to do so. Thus, she permits the media to feed on her desire for the forbidden fruit and willingly parts with the time she could be using to do readings, and the money she could save, to catch Crows Zero 2 over the weekends.

A Time to Reflect!

One only needs a furtive glance at the history log of blog posts here at real random ramble to deduce that there has been a degeneration of sorts going on here. Tags have disappeared, but the most blatant change is the absence of photographs! So what if I have lost grasp of the ability to categorise my thoughts (I have an excuse! My thoughts are too diverse to ever be fit into a box), what other excuse can I give for pictureless walls of text except for the fact that my phone refuses to connect with my laptop!

Every attempt on my part to establish a 'paired connection' between my laptop and phone has resulted in rather catastrophic outcomes. Not only do I 'fail to establish a network with User1-PC', I end up screwing my (previously) automatic connection to the home wireless lan such that I get swamped with 'unable to connect to NTU wireless lan' boxes at 5 minute intervals of using the internet at home. It has now become a game, deleting those boxes before more appear. Yesterday, I lost. 40 boxes popped at a shot. I took to ignoring them.

So, I wanted to put up the pictures of a tree snake that I took yesterday when i encountered the creature at school. But alas, its not possible! I have since taken the liberty to manually displaying the pictures (read: showing others the photo right from my phone - Mum asked me if I'm sure it wasn't a large worm).

That aside, I am only into the 3rd week of school but yet I feel pressed for time. My to-do list has gotten a little blurry - perhaps I've forgotten what I need to write down on my to-do list to do? - but GOD FORBID!

And today I encountered a senior who has driven me to a zen-like reaction! Double major, CCA, exchange programme, 7 modules this semester - First. Class. Honours. GPA.

I know, I know. I should take advantage of the fact that as bogged down as I may be, I am blessed enough to be pressed with things that I can safely say I enjoy doing. So! No more complains, ride on the passion and Work. Hard. At. All.

Ok, so I'm off to completing my readings now. It'd be a matter of 30mins before I meet Lionel and Phil for lunch at the quad. Speaking of the quad, I keep telling myself to head for the attractive dishes at the caifan stall. But the queue always throws me off, and I end up satisfying myself with a tasty, but boring, udon soup with roasted chicken as I steal quick and envious glances at bowls of rice and steaming vegetables and my favourite mapotofu sailing by.

Then its Forensic Science lecture before I meet up with Jie and Gabriel for 'Up' (no worries Mum. I promise to take the family to a movie after John's prelims. I promise to organize it. I promise not to bother you about it. I promise to just do it.)

Jie needs a break from wading knee-deep under the predatory eyes of scaly devils in mock-human+tail form. And poor Gabe with his honours project. Time to enjoy for tonight!

Starry-Eyed

There is a tertiary institution of excellence in Singapore, in which attendees bid for what they want to study. Unless of course, you are one of those elites who attend Law or Dentistry or Medicine or some other discipline which requires the royal flush on the A level script, you have to bid for your courses (in those elite disciplines, they feed the courses to you. See the difference? Mortals bid, elites eat.)

I often looked, or rather, still look at this style of mind-boggling point allocation with a fair amount of disdain. Ok, forgive me (the self-confessed unabashed member of rival tertiary institution of excellence) for not understanding how this system is 'advanced' and typical of an 'excellent' institution. I (all you @ this institution who read my blog: I am expressing an opinion against this system which binds you, not you!) cannot help but feel that this simply reeks of Christie/Metropolitian/[insert name of competitor here] - wannabe-ism!

How I wish I could pursue this narrative with some propoganda style exhortation of my institution's alternative solution to 'auctioning for courses'. Unfortunately, the stellar system which this institution (also called one of 'excellence' has put in place), I, among many others, look upon with much frustration, induce vein-in-eyeball-busting madness, and threaten broke appendages as well. Perhaps, its nickname might shed some light on how a course registration system is a mere cloak of indemnity for a dangerous, accident-causing trainwreck. Its been nicknamed, the FFFF.

So, why have I only chosen to speak up now? After enduring a year of courses churned out only at this torture mill? Simply because the naive (would you believe it. I actually discovered this on hindsight.) and innocent (the horrors. hindsight is painful) freshie that I was then could find no one else to blame, but myself, for the demise of a convenient timetable (everything done in the morning, afternoons for my own readings and consultations) and at the hands of the FFFF. In fact, I decided to be contented and study hard with whatever I had, such that I actually felt thankful for FFFF over auction house!

Needless to say, my feelings towards FFFF changed, much for the worse, following a rather unfortunate encounter a few days ago. See, the FFFF works by allocating specific dates to each course, and from there subdivide these dates, giving each year a specific timeslot to register for modules. Working on a first-come-first-serve basis only means that if your timeslot were to be slapped at midnight, you'd jolly well be clicking the 'add courses into FFFF' button repeatedly and slamming the F5 button at 11:30pm just so that the FFFF would catch your courses at the earliest possible nanosecond, and voila, you have it. This is not to mention the rapid scrolling required to rank the modules up for balloting, and the f5 slamming repetitive motion, proceeded by a module add-this-drop-this act just to ensure that there are still vacancies for you. Too bad if you were given the later time slot. The FFFF knows no mercy.

The FFFF is also implanted with a brain that can seperate each module according to 3 categories. The first, your 'cores' - you need this to graduate. Secondly, the 'prescribed electives to be placed for balloting' - you also need this to graduate. Thirdly, the 'unrestricted electives also to be placed for balloting' - surprise! you also need this to graduate.

This order of grouping naturally compels us to place most attention on their 'cores'. So, we attendees of the instition would shed much blood and sweat over ensuring that these cores can be approved by the FFFF upon submission within the nanosecond. However, knowing that the other categories can be put up for balloting (see, the FFFF tests your patience further), any shrewd member of this excellent institution would execute the trick of piling up modules (just to fill the maximum of five slots) to be balloted. And since this is a ballot which would only allocate you one out of the five, no one cares even if these modules clash, the exams clash, whatever else. Just ensure that your cores are safely out of reach.

I might have just fooled you into thinking that the FFFF is a simple-to-use system. Well, maybe, it eventually would be with enough practice. However, things get more complicated when the simplest category - cores - are convulted by the presence of cores from another discipline. I am the bearer of such a cause, unfortunate, in this instance to not know of how the FFFF works against people like me until with the help of good old hindsight. Perhaps FFFF does not like this complication too, for it wrecked its wrath on me that very day, placing me in a connundrum that ended with only 2 registered modules, a ton on the ballot list (even cores which are supposed to be registered and mine and mine only are actually chucked there!), and desperate emails to the administrator to give me what I so badly planned and need: 3 + 2 cores and 1 elective.

So, despite my reverance displayed to the FFFF when I actually left my students early just to risk dislocating a joint on my finger on a borrowed mouse, I was slapped with the shock that i had 3+2, instead of what I had anticipated to be 3 cores. And also with the utter jaw-dropping horror of seeing that all I planned for was razed to the grounds in an instant. Surely, things became worse when, despite 2 hours of frantic phone calls to 3 adminstrative offices, these were the replies I received:

'I see I see, well I don't know'
'I'm sorry but I don't know'
'Just send us an email, for now I don't know'

Yet, despite the common 3 word phrase blatantly obvious in the above, how did I finally figure how FFFF ticks? Hindsight! I have a better comprehension of things now. Hopefully, when I come face to face with FFFF in a few months time, I would be better armed.

So yes FFFF, you succeeded in obliterating my carefully laid plans for august, only. Now I can only wait in agonizing patience, at the habit of checking the email account provided by this excellent institution every hour, in the hope of seeing a reply which reads something other than 'I don't know.'

The narrative is going to end soon now that I think I have said enough about the FFFF. If there's anything that is going to stop me from griping about it any further, that would probably my friend and fellow FFFF victim's message plastered on Facebook, censored and adapted and excerpted for your easy reading:

F! I missed FFFF's registration time! No modules now!

And just in case you have not figured it out by now: Frantic Fastest Fingers First.

Singlish

Now, why didn't I think of it this way?

Was Singish such a bad thing anyway? I am no purist, I believe in adjusting our spoken language according to the environment. Standard English for work, Singlish for everyday chatter. So, in the pursuit of excellence in education, why don't we let our local children master 4 languages? English, Singlish, Mother Tongue, and another!

Make up!

Ladies and Gentlemen, hello to you all. In a few minutes, you will be coming face to face with someone who would most likely scare and disgust the majority of you. The minority might not actually display any sort of reaction to this person, except maybe, to ask where she bought her mascara from.

Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, in a few minutes time, I, would be looking you in the eye. Yes, this (insert whatever word you want here, but not just yet, complete the sentence first) person would be right in front of you, and this person wears make up (ok, go insert that word now, depending on your reaction towards women who wear make up).

Let me answer the minority first. Its not foundation, just some loose powder from Shiseido's Maquillage series, which, I happen to feel is the best make up for asians with oily skin, particularly when you need to function under hot and humid circumstances. I do wear foundation though. On occasions where I feel I need to dress up a little more, and I usually enhance the OC20 maquillage shade with the face palette creator. The gel eyeliner is from that range too, in dark brown, which the sales girl recommended would be a best shade to suit my iris colour, and the mascara is really just from Loreal. There would be a day when I can afford to get the curler, lash conditioner and mascara all from Shu Uemura. But for now, I make do with curling them at least 3 times a day, even when I do not apply mascara. Yes I do wear eyeshadow on those 'occasions' too. I bought the limited edition silver palette from Maquillage. Yes, silver can actually be a very natural looking shade, as good as its gold counterpart, provided it is applied with the right technique. I always preferred gloss to lipstick, and now as I am scraping the bottom of my BE375 (this is about the most natural shade I could ever find), I would soon have to whip out the Sheer Lip Colour from my make up box.

Now to address the rest of you. Please proceed to uncringe yourself from the shock and horror of seeing a person with make up. And, before you proceed to bolt away from this freak of nature, let me tell you, face to face of course, that I never intended to scare you. Truth be told, I never stopped to think how my wearing make up would affect you. I'm actually more concerned with the fact that my BE375 is coming to an end than the fact that I wearing make up, somehow, goes against your morals.

Why? You may ask. Ok, sorry if I did not answer this immediately, I am in the midst of curling the hard-to-reach corners of my lashes. Done. Well, that is because I wear make up for no one else but myself. I enjoy playing with colours. I like to shade and highlight and create contours on a canvas. That's why.

Now, you may go and baffle yourself over my explanation as I work on the lashes on my other eye. I bet you are so thankful that I only have 2 eyes. Done. What is it I heard you say? Yes, from you, the one who hates make up and all women who wear them and has a deviant art account. Why don't I be an artist so I can play with colours instead? Brilliant. You seem to think that the word 'artist' is only confined to one who works on a deviant art account or carries a scrap book. Unfortunately, I do not subscribe to your way of thinking. To me, the word 'artist' is kaleidoscopic, and I consider make up artists to be, artists, as well.

Did I just give you a horrible tongue twister? Ok, go untangle your tongues as I apply my gloss. Lower lip done. Have you untangled your tongue yet? Upper lip almost done. How much time do you need? Ok both done. Why are you staring at me like that? Yes you. Don't pretend you don't know I know its you. Yeah you. Female. You look disgusted. Shall I give you a sink? What is that you say? That you have a different value system from me, and hence you think its an abdomination to wear make up? I have a one word response to you. OK. Yeah, simple as that. Sure we have different values (if you want to use that word, for me make up is just something Ifun, to ascribe it to a 'value' is an overstatement of monumental proportions to me really), so be it. And if it bothers you so much to look at me as I curl my lashes, I suggest you look somewhere else? At the floor?

Ok, for your own safety, keep your eyes on the floor. I am about to curl my lashes now. This might scare you to the point of feeling faint. Keep your eyes on the floor, I'm telling you.

Goodbye for now. I think you should have inferred the gist of my message by now.

Lolita

I have chewed up every morsel from the Devil's Larder and if all goes according to plan, I shall be land my hands on Lolita tomorrow.

Ok, we're taking it a step deeper, beyond Kamikaze Girls and Baby, the Stars Shine Bright. Will this Russian literary masterpiece be able to unravel more insight into the world of dollies and lace?

Money

I have been spending.
A lot.
Too much.
Maybe.

And I've been dying to go abroad. Everybody seems to be escaping overseas, even if its just for a few days. I want to go some place I've never been before. Taiwan, anybody?

Overheated Lesbos and Skirt chasers!

My experience in an all-girls convent school, a coed junior college, and now, a public university have taught me something really interesting. The fact that some lesbos in heat simply lose every semblance of control over the parts of their body with lips. Here, i'm referring to 3 parts, all of which can secrete fluids and which they can shove things into.

Who would have thought that I would see the same phenomenon in skirt chasers (though for this case, there are still 3 parts, but only 2 have lips).

Edit: I'm not accusing all lesbos of exhibiting such symptoms under heat. The fact that I've likened the heterosexual male skirt chaser to those who do goes to show that I'm not pinning this phenomenon exclusively on women with a not so conventional orientation.

So please do vice versa.

Little Snippets

I cannot believe that I have decided to embark on a blog post that would actually need days of work before it can be published. Part of it is in a Microsoft Word document now and I am deliberating between feeling excited about it and feeling incredulous that I am actually commiting myself to a complete time-waster from which I would not receive any tangible benefit.

Work is getting tougher and tougher by the minute and I am finding it increasingly difficult to make steady progress. I have to press on.

Yet, being exposed to a discipline in which I need to read and write a lot has introduced be to a whole plethora of books that I would love to savour on my own as well. I was picking up some extracts and titles for the students today and have thus jotted down the many titles I would love to get my hands on and devour at my own pace once I'm finishing with Shiokari Pass. I have to admit that my progress with the latter has been considerably slow nowadays, given the change in intensity of my schedule.

But right now something is pressing. I have to make a decision between risking all I have for one shot and something I love or hopping onto a safer ship to do something I only like so much.

Stress is a constant. I run, very literally, away from it.

I have recently discovered that I am very, very slow in a certain aspect of life. Thank you for your patience.

I am looking forward to the day where I can finally publish the text, in progress @ microsoft word. Till then, look forward to snippets strung together to make a seemingly cohesive narrative.

Out damned spots

My recent consistency in doing housework has yet to attain recognition from a very important individual nor attract offers for help from another very important individual. I admit that I am not usually in the best of moods once I proceed to Kao MagicClean immediately after getting home, and more often than not I find myself swearing at the floor (literally). But my mantra helps: I do this because I love my family, so keep my complains to myself and the 4 walls.

My recent venture into a vocation which requires a high degree of love for reading and writing has since compelled me to treat seriously, another label for this blog, 'Book'. I will not be doing a book review for every single book I pick up. In fact, I might just try to avoid doing reviews for all of them. But what I would write about is how the books I read affect me.

So what has Ayako Miura's 'Shiokari Pass' done? I admit I was so tempted to slot it back into the book drop after getting to the 2nd chapter. I was turned off by the simplistic style of translation which made me wonder if I had actually picked up one of those children's stories, if you could actually call them that, which do not actually have a plot line for you to follow but instead are garbled text which slap moralizations of every situation upon its reader. Then somehow, my habit of sneaking snippets from the ending did me good, and my desire to get to the lead up to the train accident kept me ploughing through each line. Thank God for that, I have now cleared the premises and am at the portion of the novel where the story line picks up and I am actually starting to draw my own debates over the conversations between Nobuo and Yoshikawa.

Oh the beauty of reading. Reading, writing and speaking - indispensable activities required when one wants to grasp a language. I may have said this before but the English Language is rife with imperfections because it is so impreciese. But this is what makes it beautiful, since writers have the privilege of surfing through a sea of vocabulary before choosing the right words, and take so many different angles in interpreting a text.

That being said, while I am still on the way towards mastering the English Language (right now I say the word 'mastering' with caution. I am not sure if anyone can actually fully grasp every nuance of a language, and I don't know if I would ever come close to being proficient, and not just fluent (I hope I am now) in it), I am being put to shame by a dear friend of mine who has started on a 4th language.

Note to self: Make haste!

'The Ugly Version Of'

Work has been great to say the least. I never knew that I could learn so much from children, and learn to love children so much. And I am very thankful for the gracious working environment that God has placed me in, though I must really gripe about the quality of food produced by the canteen. Surely, being in a tertiary institution has exposed me to higher standards of food and beverage, but surely the despairity cannot be that big! I was actually rather appalled by the scalding mound of dumpling noodles presented to me today, and I sincerely hope for better morsels for these children.

Anyway, I am currently in the midst of writing articles, managing this new piece of work, working through a novel, and trying my best to keep up with a good fitness routine. I have to admit that one of these assignments is exhausting me out now, and hence I've decided to work on it tomorrow and do some blogging before I indulge in the art of reading what people write instead of writing myself.

So, may the blog begin to roll.

My inability to accept with grace, the phrase 'the ugly version of', has oftened resulted in me suffering contagiously moody days. On certain occasions, I have been labeled rather unfairly at my reaction - a consequence of feeling upset that I have been called 'the ugly version of' someone. Eeks!

You, I am still curious as to why you called me 'superficial' at being upset when you and Her told Him that he 'won't believe how hot her (referring to me) sister is cause Tessa is so ugly'. Yes You, you who would probably embrace Christianity if it were packaged with a cunt and what you deem 'hot' feature. Throw it into an oversized shirt and short denim shorts at that and you'd probably become an evangelical.

Hence, I tend to find myself disgusted at that phrase, regardless of usage.

However, a recent journey with my Mizuno shoes has given this phrase an interesting spin. After a year and more of running with my New Balance Shoes, I almost completely forgot the existence of my Mizuno Wave.

I have to admit that I never gave much thought to the latter, considering how it made its rather abrupt entry into my life. I had just purchased the New Balance one Monday morning only for Mum to hand me brochures raving on the new technology behind the Mizuno Wave Creation. I did not take too kindly to the design though. My New Balance were nothing to boast about, but I simply was not drawn to a shoe constructed from a block of white with streaks of colours that looked rather garish at certain angles.

Mum bought it anyway. And I avoided it at all costs, leaving it in its thin wrapping and blue box.

Until recently, when the New Balance had to be washed and the only other way to pound the treadmill was to don the Mizuno. I was skeptical as I stepped on board but moved my feet according to the usual rhythm anyway. Nothing different. As I picked up the pace, the difference became more pronounced. I could actually feel the road beneath me. It was as if my feet and shoe were in some form of synchrony. And I ran, and ran and ran, further than before.

Now I know I could have turned the above post into something more descriptive and emotional. But I know, even as an amateur runner, I have many more steps to run with this pair, more colourful journeys worth documenting even in pictures.

And yes, some day the Mizuno would have to go, and who knows what might replace it.

But for now I'm just happy that my 'uglier version of' shoes actually ran a further distance with me.

Just Desserts

It has come out at last. And generally, I only have myself to blame.

It is of my own doing that I am stuck in this predicament. I am standing atop of this pedestal which has been erected in a midst of darkness. I cannot see beyond the mere column of light which is beaming down on the pedestal. Only my body is illuminated. This column is so rigid such that if I were to stretch out my hands to my sides the portions beyond the elbow would be visually chopped. And I want to step forward, but I don't know if there would be another pedestal right beside for me to place my foot. Or even if the pedestal is there, I don't know if it is near enough.

Reactions

Here are a few conversations I had. They are real. All begin with the subjects annotated by the numerals speaking first.

1. With a student pursuing a double degree in engineering and economics:

'What subjects did you do in JC?'
'Hm, KI, Math, Econs, Lit, Music'
'SO YOU DIDN"T DO ANY SCIENCE SUBJECT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
'Nope I didn't. And amazingly, the world didn't come to an end!'

2. With a student pursuing a degree in chemical engineering.

'So you're an english major?'
'Yes'
'Oh. It must be very challenging.'
'Yes it is.'

3. With a student pursuing a degree in life science.

'So your degree is a direct-honours one.'
'Yes.'
'Then what do you do for honours?'
'A research thesis'
'Why do you need to do research in Arts? Its not like you can help anything if you do'
'Research in the Arts is a very fulfilling field. For one we can analyze how 'elitists' and the 'self-serving bias' works.

4. With a student pursuing a degree in material science engineering.

'So as an English Major do you need to study any science'
'We do need to do cross-faculty modules'
'Oh my goodness. This is so fucked up. You don't know what you are fucking missing.'

5. With a computer science student.

'I always admired people who can write well.'
'Do you find me very stupid because I study Arts and not Science?'
'Nope. Stupidity has nothing to do with arts and science.'

Ok I lied about some of them.

The Enemy

知人知敌，百战百胜

I must have mentioned before how much the mere mention of a cliche conjures that sticky cloying feeling that is oh so unpleasant. But yet I love them because they are so true.

So here's another one, this time about knowing your enemy in order to win every battle, and I am my biggest enemy.

Even as my body pounds the treadmill, with each step, the resistance comes from nothing but itself. The horrendous burning from the lactic acid, the dehydration that makes the whole nasal cavity feel like a portion of the Sahara, are just some of the obstacles that I give myself, from myself, to fight with myself.

Reading books on running has helped me put this cliche into perspective. I have to know my body, in order to run effectively. And to know my body requires that I listen to it. As much as I struggle with inertia on those days when I just want to sit down in front of some electronic device and subconsciously build hoardes of cellulite, it becomes equally difficult to stop running once the momentum has kicked in and the adrenaline is coarsing through my veins.

And that's how injuries surface. I have been blessed to be free from joint injuries or muscle tears (so far), and although this could be simply because I have yet to reach the point of a competent runner, I take comfort in the fact that maybe, it is also because I have been listening to my body.

I can accept, rather easily, that rest is as crucial as working hard, and hence try as much as possible to rest when I need to. Of course the ugly past rears here, where, being the obese and unhealthy tween, I often tried to make up for my lack of physical activity with marathons on the desk. Needless to say, falling asleep at the desk was an everyday affair, and the stern mockings from my family members who caught me in the act still resonates even today. Having been conditioned in an environment where sleeping was seen as a sign of weakness rendered those moments even more humiliating, which is shy I never returned the favour then, and hardly ever do so now (if it happens).

Now I am glad that as I run, I listen to my favourite tunes, and also to my body.

I Listen as I Run

Even before I write about what I intend to, I have to admit that a certain blogging protoccol has been nagging at me to blog about my perfect birthday celebration and the very thoughtful presents I received. Its almost like an invisible yoke that has been shadowing me for everyday since the 6th of May, and here I say 'shadowing' simply because this yoke has only nagged at, but has yet to compel me into actually writing about it. Maybe it is mere procrastination that has left the tons of related photographs unlabelled, collecting some virtual dust in my 'MOB' folder. But somehow, I believe the real reason is that my 20th birthday has been so perfect that I want to fossilize it in my intangible memories. For some reason, writing a chunk of text about it and pasting pictures all over seems to dilute the preciousness of those moments as it is now open for the world to access. Notice I did not say 'see'. I do not have a traffic counter on my blog but I am still sufficiently aware of the number of passers-by and readers.

Anyway, back to the topic. This was probably triggered by my recent birthday gift of 'What I talk about when I talk about running' by Murakami, as well the short and simple book 'Running Fit' which I borrowed to complement my Murakami read. I have recently taken an interest in sports, particularly running. This may be extremely difficult to believe considering I used to lead an almost sedentary lifestyle as a child (yes, I reversed time in this sense), and any attempt to walk around the reservoir then was often met with wide opened mouths and arched eyebrows.

So while I have yet to take part in a marathon, or a half-marathon at that, I must say that I do enjoy my sessions in the pool, at the gym, and most of all on the treadmill or in West Coast Park. True enough, when I run, I take myself to a different place. I actually spend more time, on the treadmill, allowing my mind to drift in and out of different realms. And this dreamer of a time has probably prevented me from improving my timing or distance as fast as I should have, but hey, I do not enjoy running so much as for a competition's sake, rather than just immersing myself in the adrenaline with each step.

Yet, despite my drifting, I seldom run 'alone'. Occasionally, when a partner comes along, then I switch to 'competitor' mode, or sometimes 'chaser', when my partner has the inevitable duty of letting me chase after him/her. Then again, I am not really 'alone' even without a partner, being accompanied by music. It is very rare that I run without music when I do not have a physical partner, as if the act of running is somehow synonymous with listening to music.

But music, when I run, does not function as a motivation mechanism of sorts. I know many runners blast rock, hip-hop, rap as they run just so they can match their pace to the beat. But I don't. In fact, I do have some 'slow' songs on my 'working out' playlist. I actually take a lot of time to select which part of my playlist to start, such that I can spend up to 1minute actually walking on the treadmill first as I sift through. Usually, when I select a song to start with, I will stick to that song for many other workout sessions. But, when I feel the need to change, I repeat the 1 minute treadmill routine again. Recently I have been starting with Scandal's 'Doll', then I occasionally skip 'Orion Once Again', but somehow I never miss Larc's 'Honey'. And I usually finish with 'Still Doll'.

I cannot pin a relation between the songs I listen to and my exercise routine. Try as I might, I have never been able to pin the crunches with 'Enter Sandman' or the different stages of incline with any particular song or artist. In fact, I do recall to repeating 'Still Doll' at least thrice, consecutively at that, as I ran.

Maybe its because my running time is the best time for me to listen to music. My driftings away from the rhythmic pounding somehow let me pay better attention to the voices, the different instrumental parts, the lyrics at that.

Oh how I love to listen as I run.

The Emo Cycle

Several things I realized/have been reiterated to me, much to my utmost chagrin!

1. Prolonged bouts of Emoness are equivalent to narcissism.

2. Sometimes, stereotypes - in particular those pertaining to schools in SG - become stereotypes only because they are so true that there is no other way to call them!

3. 2's a company, 3's a crowd. This is yet another stereotype, which hey!, is so darn true.

4. One of the most subtle, yet strongest ways, to put someone down, is to attribute everything they've worked for to 'luck'.

So, since emoness is way more contagious than SARS or any H1N1 strain of sorts, we need stronger antidotes!

(And I know it'd make an abrupt ending to close this entry like this. And I do know what else I can write, but I have no impulse to start typing about them. So this is it)

All Hail!

I have never known my powers of influence to be so strong to the extent of 'all hail thee' level. Today showed me that this power of mine, is multiplied by at least 100 times, in the area of spoilt appetites and caloric-busting activities.

I am all the more motivated to sign up for the personal trainer's certification course. The sight of me, dressed in signature Nike trainers with TESQ emblazoned across, standing akimbo atop the highest pull up machine you can ever find wielding a 100kg bench press above my head as I exalt all to 'WORK OUT AND STOP EATING', accompanied by lightning bolts and roars of thunder under a torrential storm that for some magical reason does not wet me - is almost risible.

But it'd come through some day (albeit with on a less dramatic scale).