My little space on the web

Questions of a paranoid and emotional mind.

2010-03-29T05:35:00.000-07:00

Why is it...

...You always know how to find time for your friends when they need help, but can't spare any for myself?

....My problems are never as big as anyone else's?

...I always feel as if my hand is stretched out, trying so hard to reach to you?

...I feel like I'm screaming silently, begging and hoping you'd hear the ache of my heart?

...I always feel forgotten, discarded? It's almost as if, if I don't message you, you wouldn't even bother.

...I feel so unloved.

Forgotten P.O.S.

2010-03-25T08:11:00.001-07:00

Not sure if the title of the post is referring to the blog, or myself.

In any event, I re-vamped the look and I have to say, I quite like the new style on here.

So I suppose...I should write. Any form of writing is better than none, even if my story is left hanging midway. As with a lot of things.

Recently I've taken a great interest in jazz clubs. When did I stop this habit? It's an absolutely soothing experience. The dim lighting, the leather couches, the smooth liquor. All accompanied by even smoother jazz.

I guess as I get older, my tastes have started to mature some. I can no longer stand much of the same music I was used to as a teen.

Here I am, I suppose, trying to be heard. Too much free time, and noone to talk to.

Romance is...

2009-07-19T20:06:00.000-07:00

...buying flowers for your loved one. Not because its Valentine's day, or because you want to apologise. For no reason other than seeing the smile on her face.

...about holding her hand and wondering, naively, if it fits into yours perfectly because of some divine intervention.

...about listening to her whine and thinking that she's cute, even when she's angry and pouting right at you.

...about watching her eat down the last hunk of ice cream and shaking your fist at her for doing so when she's grinning back at you, but loving her all the same.

Romance is, ultimately...
...About finding the one that, no matter what happens, you end up going back to and finding yourself smiling for it.

Cause you know that the first three months of a relationship are always going to be a blissful joy, but after that the problems occur. But no matter what, you stick it through to the end.

It's called a 'labor of love' for a reason.

Quarter-life crisis?

2009-06-21T06:06:00.000-07:00

I've been known as a worry wart.

Anyone who's ever known me long enough knows me for this. I'm infamous for it. At one point in time, I had so many worries that I had an ulcer (and for my age, that was considered dangerous and highly unusual).

Even in my teens, I had acne scars not really on my face but under my chin and my scalp. A dermatologist checked my diet, exercise routine, and water intake and blamed it all finally upon worrying.

But this time, I wonder, should the worrying stop over this matter?

It's something not small you see. It's something I see everyday.

Every single damn day.

Every time upon the clock, I realise that seconds, minutes and hours of my day drain away.

I try to lie to myself. I try to tell myself that really, I'm just afraid of work. That I'm afraid of going back to the office, of seeing the computer screen and picking up phone calls again.

The truth of the matter is, I'm scared of the tomorrow. I'm scared of the morning and what it brings. The end of a day. The closing of another day of my life, of having done nothing yet again, and bringing my days closer to my death.

Funny enough, I'm scared of death. Not scared of dying. I'm scared of regrets. Scared of being an under-achiever, of disappearing like another grain in the sands of time.

People try to tell me to look forward. But at this point, I don't see anything in front of me. I'm lost and I'm afraid. And ultimately, I wish I had some semblance of guidance.

If anyone, anything, any being up there is listening to me. Hear my plea?

Empty Lives...

2009-01-25T21:57:00.000-08:00

Okay, well, as this is my place on the web, this will give me ample opportunity to do one thing I've been meaning to do for quite some time.

Rant.

So what's todays rant about? Something we hear about every single day.

I'm not really sure when it all started. Human nature is, of course, curious. And there's nothing more that curious humans love to do than to gossip.

Talk about who's sleeping with whom, who's cheating on what, who's dating this, what she said, what he said...he's a bitch, she's a dick, etc etc etc

That's fine. I'm not ranting about that.

What I've got serious problems is this...celebrity...business.

I really have no idea when it started with. I'm sure that ages ago people were all concerned about who Elvis was dating, and who Marilyn Monroe was sleeping with. It went on to Presidents and movie stars, sport stars with drug habits and rock stars who went into poverty.

But today's world is just ridiculous!

We have "papparazzi" hounding celebrities until they drive themselves to death (look at Princess Diana), until they have no personal life, until marriages break up or celebrities go insane.

But all that's fine, some of you may say, and I'll accept that. It's all part and parcel of the packaged deal. Earn 15 million dollars a movie, and you expect to get hounded by the press.

But what about people like me, who don't want to see this shit?

Every time I walk into a bookstore, at the magazine aisle, we'll see news tabloids filled with the latest 'gossips'. Huzzah! Now I don't have to watch the TV (Channel E anyone?) for it anymore, I can read it when I take a dump. Let's all take a crap whilst reading about Paris Hilton's latest fling.

At the very least, I certainly won't be short of toilet paper in the loo...

But that isn't what really broke the camel's back. The last straw has been the past few days, listening to the radio.

Where every radio station is giving me hourly updates about our 'favorite' celebrities.

Whoop-de frickin' doo?

I get to find out, at any point of the day, at any point of the week, who's dating whom, who slept with what, who farted over which dinner? About people whom I will never meet

And worst of all, celebrities come and go about the same time that I decide to buy a new underwear.

The only thing I can imagine is how empty the lives of people must be if they find exitement or joy in listening about the latest gossip of people they never know, and never will know, to the point they will need hourly or even daily updates.

I know I have enough friends in my life all having plenty of Korean Soap Dramas for me to worry the slightest bit about people who are little more than strangers on a big screen.

Strife

2009-01-19T16:32:00.000-08:00

A story I wrote a long time ago, this is simply a re-telling.
The story is not really super original, its something I saw in a clip once. The clip however, had a different take then mine, so I've made my own changes to it.

The arrows kept the men down. The shrill whistle of arrows overhead sounded like the Grim Reaper's scythe slicing down their necks. Angrily, the Captain of the guard pulled down the new squire. "Keep your head down!" He hissed angrily. "You want a bleedin' bullseye on yer forehead to help them?"

The squire hid lower than the rest of the men, shamed by the insult. The Captain gave a grumble, muttering to himself. They replaced an old veteran with a new squire...who soon enough, will probably need a replacement himself. A chilling thought shook the Commander's spine, though he hid it well; despite his callous nature, the loss of life amongst those around him affected him deeply.

The Captain gave one look at the flag behind him. The symbol of their proud army was there. A raven, it's wings spread on a blood red background. A fitting symbol for the famed army of the Crimson Knights. A smile drew across the commander's face. That symbol meant many things to him. For the enemy, it was a shout of defiance. To the enemy, it said: 'Here we are...and here we shall stay!'

To him, it meant the promise that troops would rally to the flag. Reinforcements would come, so long as the flag remained standing. The army would not leave their best men stranded. No. They would come...

An explosion of dirt and gravel from a thrown boulder rocked the earth, shaking the Captain from his trance. He turned to watch, seeing a hurtle of bodies fly up along the air. He viewed the sight with a sort of resignation...there was nothing he could do for those poor men. They were losing more and more good soldiers as they waited here.

There came, from behind, a rallying cry. A charge of cavalry, a small group of scouts, lead the foray. Horsemen skilled in melee combat ran past them towards the enemy, screaming in bloodcurdling fury.

Quickly the Captain seized the moment. Grabbing the flag, he stood up atop the wall they were hiding behind, his head turning left and right. His hand was cupped at his mouth, as the flag he carried wavered proudly in the wind. "Rally to the flag! Rally to the flag!"

"Chaaaarrrggeee!" As one man, as one centralized unit, the knights rose up from behind the walls and rushed forwards. Arrows flew from crossbows and swords were drawn pointed towards their enemy...their hated enemy that had kept them entrapped for so long.

Their foe was numerous...their foe was strong. But the men fought valiantly. The Captain waded through bodies, a blade in one hand and a gauntleted fist ready to strike. Faces were smashed, skulls were cleaved, bones were chopped. Unleashed on the battlefield, the Captain was death incarnate himself, his blade tempered not only by experience but by the righteous fury of the death of many fallen comrades.

But then it seemed, the battle was lost. Enemy reinforcements pulled in; Pikemen, armed with deadly spears, dehorsed the cavalry that had given the small company what boost they had, and a line of heavily armored swordsmen, fresh into the fray, found the tired company that had little rest to be of little challenge to their blades. More and more good men were dying, and the Captain could do little more than yell for his men to stay in formation.

'Blitch'. The nasty, moist sound of an arrow penetrating flesh. The Captain's eyes jerked closed in pain. He gritted his teeth together, nearly biting on his tongue. His left arm grew limp, and his sword clattered to the floor. As he stumbled onto his knees, he saw it at last.

The flag. It had fallen onto the floor, it's proud banner stomped on by so many feet. The sounds of steel clashing on steel, of arrows whistling through the air, all of this around him seemed so distant. The sounds of men screaming in pain and in anger, of horses neighing in fear...they all seemed so surreal, as if from some dream.

And yet, all of a sudden, as if possessed the Captain arose. With his workable right hand, he grasped the pole of the flag. And then...he ran.

He ran onwards past his men. He ran onwards past the enemy. He ran onwards past incoming arrows and thrown daggers. He ran like a demon in the wind.

When at last he reached the top of the hill, the enemy found their mark. Arrow after arrow pummeled his back, gouging his flesh, pouring crimson fluid onto the ground. With his last breath he plunged the end of the pole into the ground. As he slumped, face down onto the ground, he turned his head to one side so he could see the flag. His vision grew hazy...everything seemed so dark, so faint, so cold.

The flag wavered proudly in the wind, the fabric rustling in the breeze. And before the Captain passed away, he smiled.

The enemy had won the battle, but for the Captain...the enemy had lost the war. The flag was still standing. The promise was still there. More men would come.

Here we are, the Captain thought.

And here we stay.

New Apartment

2009-01-19T00:40:00.000-08:00

While I have lived in various places over the years, this is officially...my first apartment.

That's not saying I never lived in an apartment before, but this is the first one that is officially in my name. It's a big responsibility, as if anything defaults, it all falls back to me.

With such a serious undertaking, it is only fair that the apartment requires a serious name.

And yes, everything was thought through seriously, with a serious filtering process through several names.

The name for the new apartment is...the De-Virginator. Very serious indeed.

But honestly, the place has a lot of potential. It's very 'warm'...walking in, I feel very comfortable with it, and so far have no problems with the housemates.

And there's just so much possibilities! Perhaps I feel like a kid, fantasizing about pirates and spaceships and such, but when I walk in, I can easily imagine what I would do with the place.

Kendo practice, a place for my workouts, a small little TV/monitor for my PS3.

A place for dinners which will involve friends, pizza, beers and laughter.

The possibilities are endless...why, with that fourth empty room, I can even start building that Harem I have always wanted to get around to...

The Composer

2009-01-17T06:09:00.000-08:00

Been a while since I've written anything. In any event, this is a story I had made up quite a few years ago. It's been a while, but I suddenly felt the urge to write. Nothing new or creative here, but its just when you get that feeling you want to put pen to paper (Or in this case, fingertips to keyboard).

In any event, here goes nothing.

He was a dying breed, he knew. There was little call for his line of work anymore, in this era. Who needed a professional pianist? Those few who truly succeded, they performed in places like Carnegie Hall, but they were people who didn't just play pieces, they created masterpieces in their own name.

What money he earned through his passion came from teaching children how to play the piano, just one to one hourly sessions, little basic stuff that never really came to fruition. It always frustrated him to see young children so bored and so uninterested in music, forced to by parents who sat there with glazed eyes at how 'talented' their children were. But it paid the rent, and that was all that was important.

Ah, but how he wished he could one day be successful. Not for the money, of course. Those musicians who wanted only wealth were soulless, in his opinion. How he longed one day to be heard far and wide, with a masterpiece that could move souls! Nothing could put the emotions that a pianist could play onto paper. How could you move a man to experience the feeling of a storm as William Tell did through words, or bring a man to tears like Mozart had done several times over?

And so, day by day, he would sit and play. A few notes, just here and there, 'testing the waters' as he liked to put it. What emotions would he bring out? But always, day by day, he would be interrupted. He didn't earn much, and the neighborhood he stayed in wasn't exactly the nicest or the safest of areas. Too frequently the sounds of a crying woman and a man yelling in the apartment next to him would disturb him, the dischord of noise ruining whatever song he was trying to frantically to compose. Once he had tried to be a hero, to knock upon that door wanting to tell the man to keep it quiet. But what had come out was a large hulk of a man that reminded him of an obese frankenstein, and from the look on that man's face, it was clear that the composer would have likely ended up just like the woman who was crying in the back room of that apartment...probably beat up even worse.

Oh, how the composer wanted so desperately to be famous. He swore every day that one day, he would play a song that would move a crowd of people to tears.

The composer had a second source of income, a once-a-week deal. A bar offered free live music, and that was where he came in. Once a week, every friday, he would play to a bunch of drunkards who were more interested in alcohol than anything he had to offer. That didn't mean he compensated with crappy playing...he played his heart out, mostly for himself.

But this friday, he felt a pair of eyes upon him. There, in the corner of the bar, hidden behind a red-lipsticked smile, he could see her watching him. In the midst of the noise and the chaos, the rabble and the storm of conversations, she was watching him play, and he could not help but notice her.

When he finally managed to muster up the courage to talk to her, he found out her name was Rose. It suited her just fine, and she had a small tattoo on her right cheek of her namesake. She was everything he thought about himself. Cultured, artistic, just another old soul forced into this modern day life of nightclubs and drugs, alcohol and crime. They flirted and they laughed, they smiled and even held hands. But as they were about to leave the bar, a fight had begun to broke out, and before he knew it, he found a bottle wildly swung straight into his face.

Saturday morning was when he regained conciousness, or at least, he thought it must have been saturday. Everything seemed to ache, and yet, he was on his bed. Patched up it seemed, and somehow returned to his home. Had everything been a dream? Was meeting up with Rose, the one person whom he thought could finally understand him, nothing more than an illusion like some mirage in the desert?

His life, was, after all, certainly back to normal. The sounds of a woman crying, of some sort of fighting and even furniture tossed around could be heard in the apartment next to him. Certainly, the grim situation of the slums he lived in was still there.

But hah, it seemed, not everything was false and untrue. For there, written in red lipstick upon his bathroom mirror were the words 'Friday, 9 Pm'.

The week went by surprisingly fast, despite having something to look forward to. And yet day by day, he was unable to finish his masterpiece. This young composer could never find the right notes, the right tune. The talent was there, to be sure, and yet having burned through a hundred tapes of recording, he could never find something he felt was moving enough.

And when Friday had come, he made all the careful preparations. He had gone to the barber, just a day before, and gotten himself a trim. Painstaking care had been done to his selection of clothing, and to complete the entire setup...fresh red roses, just like her name.

He even went an hour early, seated there at a table like a customer and not at the piano at the bar. Though the week had come and gone, that last one hour, it seemed, felt like an age and a day.

Minute by minute dragged on, until 9 o'clock came. And still she had not arrived. Perhaps, he thought to himself, she was getting ready for it. It was common after all, for a woman to be alittle bit late when it came to a date.

10 o'clock came, and she had not arrived. Traffic perhaps? Cabs were so hard to get these days.

Try as he could, but when the clock struck midnight, he picked up his coat, and slowly walked home. The roses were dumped into a can, and he guessed, the illusion of a dream-come-true as well. The roads seemed particularly cold and empty that night, the cold sharpened like a knife by the disappointment of a night turned horribly wrong.

Lights however, permeated the silence of the night. Blue and red glared at the front of the apartment he was staying in, and the composer could not help but keep moving. In these areas, such a sight was common, and it was always best to mind your own business otherwise the police would never leave you alone with questions.

It came however, as a surprise to see his neighbor being dragged down. The large hulk of a man seemed like a beaten giant, as several police shoved his bold head down into the back of a car. Snippets of the conversation between the policement were heard in the composer's ear, as he passed on by.

"Beat her to death, the poor thing. His own daughter no less. I heard from one of the medics she was sexually abused as well, probably with a knife or something sharp.

"That's one sick and twisted fuck, let me tell you that. Such a pretty thing."

But something made the composer stop. It felt like a shiver down his spine, as he watched the medics wheel on a trolley by. For the name on the tag listed upon the bed, was the name Rose.

"Excuse me officer, but could I see the woman for just a minute?"

The paramedic was kind enough to pull apart the sheets, just for a minute, even though the police had shook his head no. This of course, made the cop want to launch an interrogation.

"Is this woman in any way related to you?"

The composer shook his head of course. "No, she's not. Just a neighbor whom I never knew."

It was a strange night, to be sure. The police wrapped up events nicely. The abusive father would be tried, for the death and rape of his daughter. But though official records never stated anything about it, there was something that everyone there, from paramedic to policeman, from curious neighbors who had come out to onlookers on the street, there was something that nobody would ever forget.

For on the night of that young woman's death, a melancholic tune had come from an apartment upstairs. Played on an old piano, the notes had somehow moved to tears everyone who heard it. And though noone knew the name of such a skillful masterpiece, and never heard it again, those who had heard it on that fateful night...never forgot the way it moved them.

New Year's Resolutions

2008-12-28T23:53:00.000-08:00

Here's one thing I hear a lot about these things...

"Why bother lah? Not like anyone follows these things. A week or two and we all stop following it, some don't even last a few days."

(Note: The lah here is optional, depending on whether you speak Manglish. Manglish is supposed to be Malaysian English, but I prefer my own definition: Mangled English)

So, that leaves us with the question. Why bother?

Why, indeed?

I have to reply...because we must.
For those people who do not bother with resolutions, no matter how unrealistic or how idealistic, for those people I have one thing to say...

For those people who do not dare to dream, who do not dare to place goals for themselves, I have only one thing to say...

I feel sorry for you.

Resolutions are something I look forward to. And while I know that around 50% of them fail through, I find that it is important for me to set something new for myself.

The end of a year is not the end of something...but the start of something new. This is what I constantly remind myself, whenever I look at the first sunrise of a New Year. (Something I do without fail, every single year)

A new year brings with it the promise of hope. Of adventure. Of change. Of things to come, and things that will pass.

A new year comes with sadness and joy, comes with regret and fulfillment. But it comes when it comes, and we must make the most of it. How often are we reminded that a year has passed? How often is there someone or something reminding us that...'Hey! A year has passed. What have you done this year'?

And so, without any further adue, here are my resolutions.

Resolution #1: I will not be pushed around by circumstances around me.

To often I find that things change our decisions. Take for example, my diet. I wanted to remain strict to it, and while I do so under my own supervision, when pulled around by my friends I somehow ended up eating fried chicken. I wanted to keep my budget, but because of the people around me, I ended up going clubbing and spending up more than I should have.

I am not a pawn of fate!!

I will control my own decisions, or at the very least, influence it as much as I can. I no longer want this regret of everything that I do. This year, I resolve to maintain control over my environment, no matter what.

Resolution #2: Enter something competitive.

I miss the feeling of combatative sports! I miss having the knowledge that my fist can break faces.

There's a certain power in the knowledge of having fought before, and you walk and talk a little differently with that knowledge. It's addictive and probably not healthy, but I want that feeling back again.

Its the knowledge that no matter what happens, you'll be alright. And definitely I want that feeling back.

And so, for this year, I resolve to enter something combat-related. Be it kendo or kenjutsu or something with my bare hands, I resolve to be trained in the art of kicking ass.

After all...I am warrior!

Resolution #3: Build a home for myself. This new apartment business that I've found for myself in February. I want this to be a place I want to live in. I want to look forward to coming home...not avoid the dang place.

I want it to be filled with friends and people I'd call 'family'. I want there to be games and things to have fun, and a place to kick my feet up after a tired day.

And most of all, I want it to be filled with memories.

And with that said, those are my resolutions for the new year's. Hope these simple three works out just fine for me.

Food Review: Bak kut teh

2008-12-28T06:32:00.000-08:00

Judging from the these blog posts, one must think I have a very unhealthy diet...

...one would probably be right in that assumption...

(much throat clearing later)

In any event, Bak kut teh is probably my favorite 'local' dish here in Malaysia. The meaning of the words Bak kut teh, taken word for word, is Meat Bone Tea, and that's literally what you'll find here. Lots of fatty pork and bones in a herbal tea soup.

Apparently Bak Kut Teh IS a local dish, despite it being eaten outside of Malaysia. It was apparently 'discovered' in Klang, for the chinese dock workers who had very meager diets. The belief was that the soup would vitalize them, and make them stronger for hard labor.

To compliment this already unhealthy diet (There's a shimmering sheet of bubbly oil on top of the soup), there's strips of fried dough...Yau Char Koay? Reminds me a lot like a freshly fried donut, to dip into the soup.

And of course, one can never have this meal without rice. And what a way to blow a diet, than to have it with Yam Rice!

Overall, the Bak Kut Teh next to Peng Hua school kicks butt. With a decent tasting soup and good meat (it was pretty much fat free with not so many bones), we had a very decent tasting meal.

I will of course, be kicking myself for it later.

For now however, I shall simply rub my belly in content.

Fat fat fats...

2008-12-26T04:20:00.000-08:00

Why oh why, do I abuse myself so?

Despite all the constant workouts and the harsh dieting, I find myself sitting here with a large McDonald's value meal. The amount of calories, fat content and sodium in this thing constitutes an entire day's consumption (probably more), and this is just ONE meal of the day.

So why do we do it? Not people like me, but everyone that consumes McDonalds. Is it the fries? The burgers? The nuggets and the bbq sauce?

To be honest, the food isn't very phenomenal. The burgers are probably the worst part of McDonald's ( The nuggets or the fries being the best. Its a close tie).

Truth be told, Ramli burgers are much tastier, and KFC's Zinger burger is a much better chicken sandwich than the McChicken.

And while the fries are good, its about 1000 calories for a large box.

The soda's always de-fizzed or watered down from the ice by the time I drink it. The nuggets are great...when they aren't stale (because they've been sitting there all day).

So why do we do it?

Convention? I suppose. I will say that I am definitely guilty of that. I could have driven out and saved myself a ton of money. A ramli burger would have cost less than 4 bucks with an egg inside it, but my prosperity meal (Some ridiculously over-peppered sandwich) cost me 20 bucks...with delivery, service charge, and etc all included. Good stuff.

Moral lesson of the day? Avoid the fats, avoid the burn in the wallet. Or if you want to get fat, get dressed and go down for a Ramli burger.

...Cause at the very least, you'll burn calories just getting dressed and going out.

Life's bumbles...

2008-12-22T17:44:00.000-08:00

It's funny how we always tend to make up the stupidest mistakes and then end up regretting it later.

It's funny how at one point of time, we're not thinking the straightest, and suddenly later onwards we realise what a doofus we were.

It's funny how we can let our emotions guide us sometimes, like our temper, or worse. Our selfishness.

To whomever who reads this and understands, you have my condolences. I've done a grievous mistake, and I hope the person I've hurt knows that I care for them so very much.

Restaurant Review: 32 (A.K.A. The Mansion)

2008-12-22T17:19:00.000-08:00

With a name like 'The Mansion', you can clearly expect it to be posh. Or attempt to be, at any case. Which was the case here.

The setting was wonderful, to be honest. It was my first time trying out this restaurant (Though I have heard many times about it), but I really wasn't quite sure about what to expect.

Step in, and you'll find yourself in some dusty lobby. There's a sign that says "Office space for rent upstairs", which isn't exactly very good 'Feng Shui' for a supposedly posh restaurant, but whatever.

The lobby had a very 1950's appeal. A bar greets you, with a big guestbook (which happens to be the menu). Lounge chairs and coffee tables line the 'lobby' of this restaurant, and the cigar counter at the side is a nice touch.

I will admit, upon walking past this entry point and going into the main room, I was very pleasantly surprised. The setting was really marvelous. A large ceiling high window greets you with a great view of the sea. It's all candlelight, with a nice touch on the decor and the environment. The music is fine, and a mirror hangs on the wall so you can make some last minute dental checks before you go on your date.

Here's where it all goes downhill however....

For one thing, the service sucks. They're ridiculously understaffed, and everything takes time. From getting the menu, to getting drinks, to whatever you name it. I get better service in fast food joints, and I have less complaints about them.

And maybe its just me, but I've never liked fine dining. Whats with the ridiculously small portions? And don't give me that crap about the taste. It was more or less the same kind of food I could get anywhere. Steak, fried wantons? The plates were nice, the setting and all, but a restaurant is about the food, not just the ambience.

I ordered the 'Rack of lamb'. Now I'm not sure about you, but where I come from a Rack is generally quite a sizeable portion on the sheep. But just to clarify, I'll quote to you from a dictionary on the definition of a rack.

"noun 1.
a framework of bars, wires, or pegs on which articles are arranged or deposited: a clothes rack; a luggage rack. "

So using that definition, I'm assuming the rack to be a sizeable portion of the lamb's ribcage. What I got? 2 cutlets and a mashed potato. An appetizer, at 60 bucks? So, to quote from the dictionary again, I guess 32 chose to use this definition instead of mine.

"7.
a cause or state of intense suffering of body or mind."

So with that said, what's there for me to compliment about the infamous 32? Go there for a drink, have a light salad or small meal and some wine with a date. You'd definitely charm her. But if you're there for the steak, forget about it. You're definitely going out for nasi kandar afterwards.

Afterword: Pictures attached below, of the infamous Team Derrick romping at 32

A warrior's determination

2008-12-17T21:48:00.000-08:00

DETERMINATION

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate that can circumvent or hinder or control the firm resolve of a determined soul.

Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great; all things give way before it, soon or late.

What obstacle can stay the mighty force of the sea-seeking river in its course, or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

Each well-born soul must win what it deserves. Let the fool prate of luck.

The fortunate is he whose earnest purpose never swerves, whose slightest actions, or inaction serves the one great aim.

...Why, even Death stands still and waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

I just had to include this poem in here.

Everytime I read it, it just puffs my chest and makes me want to roar. Time and time again, whenever things are down, I read this poem and find myself inspired by it.

'Struggler'...A fitting label, no? For someone that consistently fights what is fated to be.

It's a little difficult to maintain this mentality, particulary in a chinese environment where people always say such things like:

"If its meant to be..."

"Leave it to fate..."

"Some things you can't control. It's all about timing."

Is it now? Such sheep, I scorn them. Yes, scorn them I do. Little do they realise that every choice we make, every step we take, every course we decide upon...these are not fated. God does not decide these things.

After all, did he not give us free will?

I realise that such thinking (which many label as arrogance), has often cast me aside from the mainsteam crowd. It is a lonely path, I will grant you this.

But one thing I will live with in my life in satisfaction.

I chose the road less traveled...

First post

2008-12-17T18:32:00.000-08:00

So I've been wanting to have a blog for a while now. Or to make it more precise, I have had a slew of blogs in the past that have all been left unattended, perhaps because I got tired of the setup or because of something else. But whatever it is, like a new year's resolution I am determined to keep and maintain this blog.

(Hopefully, unlike a new year's resolution, this won't die out in the first two weeks)

So, Huzzah for this new blog. It will be a method for me to keep track of my calories, my workout routines, my daily life, my rants, everything and anything.

And so, like a storybook, here goes nothing...