QWOP

Wow my itchy fingers just lost me a fanboy post about QWOP so I guess I'll try to replicate it once more, though the feeling is long gone, a feeling which I shall perhaps seek to emulate with 30 mins of soul-crushing attempts to complete the nigh impossible game.

I'll be the first to admit that my renewed obsession is well, inexplicable and very questionable, given that there's no actual point to the game, you control a ragdoll with the relatively simple controls of 'Q,W,O,P' for the left and right thighs and calves respectively, with the goal of crossing the 100M mark. However gameplay is all but, as you'd find if you were to click on that link above xD And yet there's something I find incredibly fascinating about it; despite playing god knows how many runs, I haven't been able to complete it even once, so the challenge could be a definite factor, or perhaps it's the process itself. A slight tap of 'O' to lean forwards at the starting line, 'W' to thrust the right leg downwards, 'O' once more to lift up the left, 'Q' to thrust the left down, 'P' to lift up the right, 'W' once more to push it down, again and again, over and over again. It's a simultaneously cathartic and frustrating experience. Mistime your steps just a little and you'll quickly find your endearing avatar falling flat on his face/ass, along with a very audible 'thump'. Do it well though and you'll find him gliding smoothly along to the soundtrack, engaged in an elegant dance with gravity and time your willing partners.

Far be it from me to over-analyze (well for those who know me that's not very far at all..) but to me at least, beyond simply being a game, QWOP is a brilliant allegory of life, elegant in the very bumbling and stumbling that one is bound to encounter as he first plays with the controls, more likely than not to end up in a tangle of limbs barely a meter away from the start line. There's a  very steep learning curve, not many would have the patience to go along with it, but the fulfillment once you get things sorted out and break into stride is definitely satisfying. But that's not all there is to it; it's by no means easy to keep the momentum going, how to resume once you've stopped is another tricky skill you'll have to pick up, get that wrong and you'll end up flat on your face, back to the start with you. Conversely as you go along, feeling pretty good about yourself, it's all too easy to get carried away by the momentum and lose control, break stride, stumble and fall. You have as many second chances as you'd like, but no save points, none at all. So, the recap, be incompetent, you fall, miserably. Over-confident and complacent, you fall. Overly anxious and unable to keep it up, you fall. Simply unlucky (countless times when lag/a sudden overpowering urge to scratch my nose caused me to miss a beat come to mind) and you fall. And yes, you can try and retry and re-retry over and over again, but You. May. Never. Succeed. And even if you do, so what? Is the whole world going to celebrate your achievement? There's no leaderboard to speak of, and even if there were, there's bound to be someone who can do it better than you; the next time you refresh the site, it's all gone. Quite a cheery message isn't it? Nah I'm obviously being sarcastic; it's downright depressing. Which probably goes a long way towards explaining my fascination with it, I'm just weird that way.

As an aside, reliable sources have informed me that there some soulless individuals have adopted a decidedly unorthodox method to complete the game, one which involves taking a strange posture, crouched very low down supported upon a mass of random limbs and thusly contorted, convulsing and sidling along the ground for very, very, long, all the way till the endpoint, the very idea of which is offensive to a purist like me. I mean, it's not exactly a Pyrrhic victory, but what's the point in that? Or maybe it says more about myself that I'd rather never reach the end and endlessly make attempts to do it the more challenging/'right' way rather than engage in something even more mind-numbing and downright ugly just for the sake of reaching the end. It's all about the style~

And yes, I just spent the better part of 750 words rewriting a post about a rather pointless game, so sue me. Or rather, SMS OTL

As an introspective person (not necessarily an introverted one) I've always looked inwards for an answer whenever I face a problem, perhaps out of a kind of arrogance that doesn't believe or doesn't accept that anyone or anything outside has anything substantial to offer, or maybe out of a recognition of the limitations that someone else on the outside looking in may face. So instead inwards I look, and if the answer really does lie within, then that's good, yet I'm ever realizing that there are some things I'm not equipped to deal with, and that sometimes I deal with them in a manner that's harmful to myself. Sometimes I'm so intent on working out a solution myself that I totally fail to consider what other options and "tools" I may have at my disposal, it's a very myopic way of dealing with things, and a mindset I really have to reorientate.

It's been a strangely trying week, furnished with anticipation to finally be met with disappointment. If I were to use a rather frivolous analogy; which I shall: It's like how upon reading Harry Potter in P1, I'd hold on to the vague-yet-fairly-foolish-hope that on my 10th birthday a half-giant would pop up on a flying motorbike and tell me "You're a wizard, Chris!" or failing that at least of getting a letter from a sentient owl of my acceptance to Hogwarts, only to wake up on the 9th of September, 10 years and a day old to realize that nothing's changed at all. Okay, strike out the fairly, this was totally out there, but I suppose I got the point across in a convoluted way.

So yes, after hearing from a friend that he'd gotten a callup on Thursday, I literally had palpitations for the next few days, conjuring up ludicrous scenarios in which they may have delayed in confirming my acceptance (The first stage of grief is denial afterall) while anxious waiting for a call, getting a near heart attack at a single SMS (thank you friends for leaving me alone, probably saved my life xP) and so it went. I was fairly sure of the outcome by Saturday, got the confirmation that I've been waitlisted today morning, hugely disappointed especially given the amount of preparation I put into it, and my dad's effort too, and I honestly thought I did well in the interview. I've been telling myself though that there's no way of knowing how well others did, and it's not like they owe me a place because I'm oh-so-perfect, army has sadly dispelled all such notions so I guess I moved on to acceptance fairly quickly, though I can't deny the faint shimmering of hope at the slightest possibility, oh naive heart of mine. A childish part of myself is indignant, questioning why it's always so tough for me, why I keep on having to deal with rejection, but I shush it before I let it embarrass myself, I know other people have it worse, and maybe I should just see it as a further test of my resolve and determination, though why I have to be tested so I may not understand. With the shooting exco episode, nus and now this, it's all too easy to draw a semi-compelling narrative, or to draw upon so many other isolated incidents even, to say that I have a predisposition to phail but at least on this occasion I refuse to do so, so press on I shall. Be humble, accept my limitations, learn and move on, that's all I can do really. Prolonged self-pity is pretty pathetic, at least for myself. Kinda reminds me of the flavor text on Rothus the Traveler, my first holographic card in Duel Masters, go google it if you're interested; it's a little melodramatic but seems to have stuck with me unfortunately.

On the positive side, I feel, at least that I emerged from last year's failure as a much more mature person and candidate, a lot more sure of myself and what I want to do, which is why I found my rejection this time particularly disappointing but I'm confident that I can only grow hereon, and for that I'm thankful. My past failures have been pretty barren mothers so far, but I guess it's important to keep things in perspective and that it's not so much the success subsequent to failure but rather the lessons you learn from it that are really important.

Some part of me is miffed that I don't have anyone much to rant to but I guess it's a blessing in disguise to give myself the time and space to mull it over and cool down in a sense, so that's that. I've been pretty negligent in catching up with people as a result, so I do beg forgiveness and a chance.

C'est tout.

What Are Words

Guess I've got no time to be dithering over the value of words when I've got a personal statement to construct/put together/fabricate. Thinking about it now though, I'm probably a lot more direct in my thinking than I ever was back in school. Or maybe not hehe. My brain works in pretty odd ways. I spend ages thinking about the right thing to say, then in the end decide that it's way too generic and mainstream and end up saying something else instead, stuffing the proverbial foot in my mouth. And it's not even the right foot! This self-sabotage really has to stop, eh?

But seriously, what are words? Cause I just can't resist. It's the time of the night when words flow freely yet mean nothing at all, which is why I'm refraining from working on it till the dawn of the cruel light of day. Night, that's a time to sort through jumbled thoughts and emotions, rearranging them in different ways, that may or may not be noticeably organized.

Much like anyone else, excepting those certifiable vegetables, and many non-certified ones out there, many thoughts course through my head throughout the day, some which I wish to convey, some which I don't. For lack of a better means, this unenviable task falls upon the ever so ubiquitous words, which more often than not, I find horribly limited. Set aside the irony that it's those self-same words which I'm employing right now. There's no other choice, you see. I think in words, holding those long internal dialogues (or is a better term monologues? I wouldn't want to imply that I'm suffering from split personalities, which Wiki kindly informs me is known as Dissociative Identity Disorder, DID for short) which spiral on and on, downwards or upwards nobody knows. Sometimes I wonder privately, a far-more-than-lingering suspicion that this mental framework of words severely limits my mental capabilities. If by force of habit I think in words, is the speed of my thoughts only as fast as these words can be selected and put together into a semblance of rationality? If I can only process things in words, is my ability to understand new stimuli and input limited by the words with which I have at hand to describe and ascribe certain characteristics to? And if these words, in their recalcitrance, refuse to come to me, and I find myself not only speechless but completely and utterly flabbergasted (now that's a word I've been wanting to use) am I then completely hapless? I apologize if the above paragraph sounds more than a little insane, it's been brewing for awhile now, and what started off as a seemingly perfectly good idea to be developed on has now grown out of hand, and yet I, as it's originator, much like how Frankenstein probably couldn't bear to get rid of his monster till it had offed a couple of people, just can't bear to euthanize it.

Very often I have difficulty expressing myself (in dark moments I wonder if maybe it's because I'm devoid of anything to express) the thoughts too heavy for words to bear. Yet words are such easy things to give and receive in so many forms, what then are they truly worth? Far be it from me to disregard words from the heart, but it's honestly so hard sometimes. Strange then that despite questioning their worth, that I could be hurt so by just a couple of words, flippantly delivered. When the message sent differs from that which is received, should that be considered the greatest travesty or a blessing, well disguised?

Then there are those moments so pure words simply do them no justice, that in the mere retelling they are inexplicably diminished; these I recall with nostalgia, joy tinged with regret, for come again in self-same form they won't, rewind the clock I can't, and even memories don't last forever. I remember a time almost two years back, day spent head buried in words and more words, the minutes timelessly passing by, and afterwards, making the trip home. The air cool, traffic light, a detour gladly taken. The fog lifts and words depart on the stroll home, passing by the set of bars and deciding on a whim to pull myself up, towards that gap between the foliage overhead and the full moon peeking through, up and down, over and over, each attempt to reach out and grasp it giddily fulfilling but ultimately unsuccessful. As I near home, the neighbor's dog barks; I shush it as I pass, step through the gate, and the moment is over. Of passing out in September, that charge down the street, all of us, wordless growls emanating from our throats, so fresh to the chevrons, pride, achievement, all that didn't really matter, just the immediacy of release. Moments I now recall as a pile of snapshots, and yet the words come in, as they invariably do. I don't really know how to describe this, but think of it this way: When you name something, does the object describe the name, or the name the object? It may be the former, initially, but as memory fills up, all that's left are words, words ascribed yet which aren't a perfect fit, can't be a perfect fit, and something crucial is irrevocably lost. Best then that these moments be given the varnish of time and held at arm's length. Look too closely and you may not like what you see. Best also, as we humans are creatures of time. We can't live simultaneously in past, present and future, though some would like to think otherwise, and onwards we must go.

I'm tired, and till now no closer to answering or even exploring the question. There's probably never to be an answer, and I suppose I've revealed enough mental instability for one day, or possibly a lifetime, you never know. I could end of with a list of things words are, which is basically a whole bunch of contradictions, and at another time, I guess I would have, but enough with the coulds and mays and whatnot, I simply will end, in the laziest and most basal of ways; in eponymous rhetoric:

What are words? Thank you.

This and this where I first read about it, are just lol.

I in particular couldn't stand the above image, rendered in excruciatingly high quality and resolution, and most of all the freaking look in their eyes which I can't even begin to describe.

Brief research on the 'net (hope nobody looks through my search history, cause "dinosaur penis" is not something that I want any of my family to see) reveals that it's uncertain whether dinosaurs even had such external sexual organs, as fleshy tissue isn't preserved in the fossil record. I also went to look up possibilities of external fertilization, a no go there thanks to the hard shell, so seems like the most likely bet is via a mutual meeting of cloaca for a few seconds. Fortunately any sentient species that comes along after us humans go extinct won't have to concern themselves with similar uncertainty over the reproduction of us humans, thanks to the large repositories of um...pornography present online.... So really, much ado about nothing? Or perhaps simply a piece of dino fanfiction.

We as a race are screwed, both metaphorically, and...ahem...literally.

Views from the Sentry Post

Just going to type out what I spent my hours at that sentry post working on; during my unfortunate guard shift. It's pretty lengthy, and in unedited form, with parts written as I struggled to remain conscious, so I don't expect anyone to read it in its entirety, or for it to be a good read. Call this a temporary escape from reality, with that blasted portfolio to prepare.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

310312  1822

The sight of birds, hundreds of birds, perched on the roof, beaks to the four poles. These birds lifting off simultaneously, coalescing in a feathery cloud, frantic flapping. It wheels and cavorts in the air, joyously, gracefully, and effortlessly, making its rounds around the spires of the cable antenna, wending through the rooftops, to settle down once again. An airshow exclusive; for my eyes alone.

An ant, impressive once more, strength concealed within its fragile frame, hoisting a winged creature of some sort with its jaws alone, not constrained merely to the horizontal but traveling along the vertical as well, making its gravity-defying way up along the guard house window frame. But with its frame so slight, and the corpse it bears (for it is a corpse, surely) so wispy, maybe its not such a herculean feat afterall.

A spider; an odd-looking one, more so than any I've seen before; not that that says much honestly, skitters across uncharted land. It pauses, occasionally, or maybe frequently, I know not. But even as it pauses, its mandibles work incessantly, moving in frenetic manner, one moment towards what I must presume is its mouth, the next, extending to touch that which it treads upon. What is it doing? I wonder. The movements look a little too deliberate, if a non-sapient creature could ever be accused of being deliberate, to not have a meaning behind them. Setting the foundations for a web, perhaps. And behold, the right foremost limb decides now, to partake in this most curious of activities as well. And yet, as it moves on, continuing its journey, there is no thread.

Why? Why do we use words such as journey? An implied beginning, middle and end; and if not end, then at least an intended destination, for I speak of course, of journeys that never reach completion. A meaning attributed where perhaps whence there was none. Over-compensation, perhaps, like how the deprived adolescent sees and hears innuendo in each thing he encounters. Hence Shang Hsuen’s epiphany, an emphatic declaration “Everything’s a phallic symbol!” way back in Sec 2. A lacking inside, the answer to which we hope to find outside, foolishly assuming that if we but seek hard enough, ask the right questions, that the answer will come eventually. And yet I can’t help but feel that the sensation of lacking only intensifies the harder you search, the longer the search extends, and if you don’t seek, you may never realize something is missing at all.

And still I choose pain. Forlornness over ignorance. The hollow; the mirthless, these laughs are mine, tireless companions on this journey of mine.

A cat, black as midnight (clichéd?), not-quite-emerald eyes (to turn the cliché on its head), stalks the footsteps of my prowlers as they make their way along their route, path momentarily passing my lonely post. Bad luck stalking their heels? Hope not. Amazingly lithe form though, legs moving in an effortless display of coordination as it leaps forth in bounds, muscles pumping under its fur, black lightning streaking across the field of grass in its pursuit.

And behold, an hour has passed, almost forty minutes, incessant writing, penning down, thoughts to paper. How strange I must look, to an observer, just outside. A green clad man, under cover from the elements, under cover yet he insists on donning that cap. A black watch he wears, rotating his wrist, ever-so-slightly, in degrees, all so frequently, what use would a man have for knowledge of the time so often? In the window he stands, doorway to his back –  I call it a doorway but it’s more an opening, really, what’s a doorway without a door, afterall – windows open to his left, right and front; windows open yet down he looks. Rifle, B197, if my eyes don’t fail me, slung around his neck. Carrying a rifle, yet down he looks. A pen he clutches, and with this, he writes, writes about things he sees while looking down, writes about things he thinks about, while thinking about what he writes. What is the meaning of this? How could meaning possibly be attributed to something which itself is used to pass the time while doing something meaningless? The man stops. Has he finally realized his folly? No. Furtive glances around. Reaches into his left pocket and extracts his phone.

And now he resumes his lonely, and very distracted vigil.

To my left, beyond the gate I hold the keys to; have opened and pulled apart, ponderous weight, inertia rendering it both hard to set into motion and arrest; the inbetween being no difficulty at all, beyond that gate lies a sea of green; blue-ish tint cast by the clouded sky above. It’s hard to make out anything in particular, indistinct outlines blend into the approaching darkness. I see dark silhouettes against the blueness of the sky; skeletal, bushy, though even they are soon to vanish, devoured by the dark of night.

A cacophony, a thunderous roar, ridiculous, to think that so many small chirps could accumulate to something so much greater. It erupted, from nowhere, it seems, silence shattered in one moment of concerted noise. I willingly concede though, that perhaps, intent as I was on this meaningless endeavour, I may have subconsciously filtered out the noise.

Dark has fallen, in what seems to be mere moments. The winged creatures have emerged, flittering about on gossamer wings, that look like they’d fall off with the most careless puffs of breath; and indeed did, as I unintentionally discovered, much to my regret. They congregate in numbers, as they are wont to do, around the sources of light, as if seeking solace from the darkness, solace in these bastions of light. Much like myself, as I cower in my sentry post, to be honest. Yet I find myself disinclined towards sharing this outpost of mine with such unruly visitors, who annoy me to no end with the disregard for my personal space in their ill-disciplined flight routes. I turn off the white halogen light, to signal the end of visiting hours.

Now comes a visitor who I take no offence against. Reptilian; padded toes, obsidian eyes glistening, reflecting the street lamps. Abrupt its movements are, limbs flashing momentarily, in a great flurry, seemingly here one moment and there the next, without much passage, if any, through the interim. It doesn’t stay long, a flurry of limbs, and it’s gone again.

And so the second shift ends; with a going in the shadow of a coming, a coming in the shadow of a going, and all of it, it all shrouded in the shadow of purposeless.

010412 0023

And now begins the third. Dark has truly fallen, painting the land a coat of matte black. Street lamps struggle valiantly, and do have some measure of success, in collective effort, but strain futilely against the peripheral darkness, impenetrable to their greatest efforts. Rocky Hill Camp, I must imagine, a luminescent pearl amidst the darkness, as I imagine, is Ladang Camp. And between them, Tekong Highway, 2x street lamps erect on either side, silent sentinels  along the entire stretch, or so I am led to believe, the shimmering thread connecting them, in this dark of night which carpets the land. All this I imagine, postulate, for I have not been graced with an aerial view, at night, and never shall. Postulations, handwavings in the air are thus all I have to offer you, which, if you but take the time to ponder upon, can’t help but wonder if those are all the halls of academia have to offer as well.

The winged creatures of yesternight have retired; for good or temporarily I know not, and care not, save being able to say with certainty that they are no longer here; no longer pestering my person so. My sentry post is bright, once again, and I am at ease, as much as a man in my predicament could possibly be at ease, anyways. Idle wondering. Those winged creatures, did they really do wrong? All they sought was solace in the light, solace in each others’ company, as they clustered and milled around. Their fragile, short-lived existences – for though I know not the exact fate of the ones milling about that particular lamppost, I know, at least, the fate of those I saw, eyes irresistibly drawn to, really, struggling on the basin top in the guardhouse toilet, struggling in what I deem to be their death throes – which could not, would not outlive the night. Did they really do any wrong? And now, not a trace has their being left, besides some minor annoyance to be washed away, look of disgust painted upon face whilst doing so. Perhaps, there is meaning to be found, meaning of the most primal sort, as the mate in the light, each generation a testament to that which came before, and they a testament to that which came before that. An organic will passed through the ages, a living testimonial to the existence of their forefathers. But even that is insufficient for me! When the earth finally terminates its orbit in the sun, and all upon it turns to ash along with it, what then? When the Wheel of Time finally, well and truly, grinds to a halt, having ground itself down to pieces, and those pieces ground themselves even finer, and so on, till naught is left, what then? What of this living testimonial then? Anyways, to have been on this planet from XXXX to XXXX is not the kind of legacy I’d want to leave behind, or be remembered for, accounting, of course, for the frailties of human memory which I shall not delve into at this point of time. Are we to be satisfied with this? Is this its meaning in full? The here&now, revelling in the light among multitudes, cowering alone in the dark in solitude, the flavours, distinct flavours, of these moments, replayed over and over, ad infinitum, a cassette player set on repeat, till the tape inevitably wears down and breaks. The answer is beyond me, has always been, will ever be, so it seems, will always lie beyond the confines of this impenetrable sphere of reality, which defies even my most valiant of attempts to pierce, to discern the nature of reality not as an agent of it, but as an observer would, from the exterior.

I tire now, of this thinking and writing, writing and thinking, so I think I shall think and not write, or write and not think; as I think about writing about not thinking, or write about thinking about not writing.

The night is quiet, human traffic minimal. Guttural grunts from the dark outside, of frog or boar or something else entirely, I know not. There is much I do not know, that I know, and can say with much certainty. Insects chirp, a night orchestra, and I am at peace. Even now, the feathered ones persist in their calling, though much more muted, then before, and I am at peace. A little tired, true, but peacefully so. I acknowledge the meaninglessness of this activity, so anything I can take away, the most minute of impressions, of the warm orange glow cast about the camp; rays of light appearing to my bleary eyes, of the play of light on tree, gentle shadows cast, all around, of everything I have noted herein, and everything I have observed without, all a boon to me. And presto! I have created something, from nothing, working the most wondrous magick of all. And when I get back I will type this, and you will read this, and sparks are created, once again, the striking of flint against metal, sparks in the mind. Whether a fire ignites, something truly lasting, that which lies beyond the material, in the realm of spirit, that I cannot say; will not say. But the sparking is enough, for me, here&now, as the green clad man writes in the little yellow book, the material melded seamlessly with that which is plucked out of the air, melded seamlessly and transcribed, tirelessly, left hand clutching the pen, the conduit which makes it all possible, ink flowing to paper, order given, meaning invoked, and where there once was a clean meshwork of cellulose fibres and coloured fluid packed uniformly into a tube; the fluid now lies enmeshed in the fibre; no, no, it is so much more, the whole greater, much greater than the sum of its component parts.

An outburst, the breaking of a dam, and now, after what seems like an eternity, gushing forth, yet can’t have been, as the watch invariably shows, finally, the pen rests, the paper rests, but the green clad man does not rest, no; the man – and I no longer shy from using the word “man”, after BMT – the man, he continues his lonely, not as distracted vigil.

And the last shift nears its end, as the yellow book, light yet heavy, laden with hours’ exertion and dreams, is kept, safely and securely, once again. And there is a going in the shadow of a coming, a coming in the shadow of a going, and in it all, whilst the shadow of purposelessness lingers, the go-er is content.

First post from you-know-where haha, in the early morning moments while the rest are doing their re-IPPTs; which I thankfully avoided by a narrow 2 seconds margin. Neat, huh? Anyway, just had a heads out, we're supposed to be doing LEARNet now, so I shall do this concurrently, while waiting for the page to load.

You've probably noticed that I've been posting much less here. That's not due to unwillingness on my part, but more due to the fact that blogging has more or less become an unsatisfactory conduit for me to express my thoughts; thoughts that won't wait till the weekend, thoughts that come in what I'd like to think are momentary flashes of insight, which tend to dwindle and pale as I try to elucidate upon them in writing. Things don't flow as freely anymore, as I try to polish my expression; choice of words etc, instead of throwing out everything in its raw form, which I find decidedly unrefined. It takes much effort; effort that I don't really have the time for.

Everyone seems to be so consumed by life lately; the immediate pressing concerns that drown everything out in the background static. Interviews, admissions, applications...all the talk of the town. And yet I find myself very much out of it; something which I felt before awhile before the As as well. It's a dangerous one; as I realized when I heard about everything that has to be prepared for Med, for example, and I also realize that I'm wholly unprepared to sit in front of a bunch of people and bloody well convince them that they've gotta take me in. Honest. Yet while I'm swarmed by the concerns of the here and now - preparing to POP, Med interviews, unpacking and tidying my room, finding my A levels cert, getting along with my section mates, to name a few, in no particular order - I find myself preoccupied with (or is it preoccupied by?) thoughts of the future. I think I'm a pretty meta kind of person, to put it in horribly vague terms, so when everyone's out there discussing interview questions, likelyhood of getting accepted into accounting or something. there I am sitting there, having extricated myself from the mess and looking at myself and saying, oh, that's where he's headed, that's where I'm headed, doesn't seem very interesting to me, to be honest; why am I doing this? Why should I make myself do this? Expectations? No, that's not it, not at all. Then why? People only have so few reasons for doing something, don't they? But none of them are really that perfect a fit! Because it feels right. Because it feels right? Yes, because it feels right. So you're telling me that you're going to stand before them and tell them that you want to do it "because it feels right?"? Well of course not; they'd think I'm a fool. But at least in the theatre of my mind, where I perform for, and appeal to an audience of one, where the only person I have to answer to is me, that is enough. The feeling of rightness isn't something easily accounted for, yet isn't something easily obtained either. There've been times in my admittedly short 18 years wherein I've had all the reasons yet none of that feeling, and I haven't been able to carry on successfully, so I'm just going to trust in this feeling and see where it brings me. Now, now I have a problem. Cause you see, I can't tell them that I want to do it because it feels right; not in so few words, so naked and direct. I've got to dress it up a little, throw in some snazzy stuff; though I do admit, I'm probably being a little too cynical right now. I've always believed that to sound convincing, you first have to convince yourself; so that's what I'll work on.

That and finding my A level cert. Neat, huh?

Oh, and all the best, if you're reading this ;) Relax, and approach it with calm and composure. You'll have no trouble, I'm sure. Things may get you down; but disappointments are Life's great gift, once you manage to keep things in perspective. They inspire you to try harder, while success only breeds complacency; while is my greatest problem, I'm afraid, when I've taken long, hard looks at the course of my life.

Just something quick to get me in the appropriate mood to write farewell notes for my juniors.

I just spent some time typing out the points/ideas Jack, Amos and I came up with for our NEFMQ submission, and I kinda realize the main problem I have with econs essays (or essays in general, I guess): I'm unable to stick to that one line of thought consistently and maintain a single coherent thread of argument throughout. Whenever I write, I find the ideas a little disjointed; the points are there, I just don't have to foggiest idea of how I should string them together, especially when there are so many ideas just positively clamoring to be let loose. I'm constantly faced with a dilemma: To just let loose and end up vomiting over the whole thing and ending up with well...a pool of acidic vomit I guess (I never claimed to be poetic with my metaphors, now did I?) or at the other end of the spectrum, to clamp down too tightly and end up with writer's block. It's only on the rare occasion that I manage to attain that absolutely perfect balance of control and every thing just flows smoothly; from head to paper, and it's just magic. 

Heh, I know this sounds pretty pedo but I'll say it anyway: I absolutely love little kids :D Yes, they can be horribly self-centered at times, or absolutely clingy at others but they're just so cute lol. That boundless energy is just refreshing and is reminiscent of those Primary School days when we could just run around madly, not fearing anything, never feeling tired. Rather that consuming our youth as a novel source of food, I humbly suggest that we immediately get to work on researching means by which we can tap upon that seemingly limitless energy as a renewable energy source. Imagine; one housing unit powered by a single child, with the trifling input of food, water, toys; nothing we don't already provide them with, surely. The houses of the future won't be powered by wind or solar energy, but by the single most prevalent product in EVERY nation worldwide; kids? Low fertility rates? What further incentive would be needed but Baby Power? XP

On a more serious note, the joint-house CIP today was a pretty enjoyable experience. I know it was meant to be for the enjoyment of the kids, but heck, I had a fun time as well! We were told not to get too close to our buddies as we'd only be with them that one time, and to just take good care of them, make sure they have fun. But when you see earnest, innocent faces like theirs' you just can't help it, really :) It was really tiring chasing Shi Jun around, especially since he was so energetic but it was a pretty fulfilling experience to see him having so much fun. And when the Frisbee facilitators were fan-boying over his throwing skills, I couldn't help but feel a little proud myself. All in all, a good experience; I realized I'm not that bad at taking care of people as well! The only sad part was when we had to bid our buddies farewell. They weren't really that sad, cause I don't think they fully realize that we likely won't be seeing each other ever again. But it gave me a really wistful feeling, kinda makes you think about encounters with the more significant people in our lives; and how we may have to part, sometime, for some reason or other.

Made some new friends as well. Haha randomly, P.School kids have the lamest of jokes.
Shi Jun: Why is an octopus very smelly?
Me: Haha, I don't know, why?
Shi Jun: Because it has 8 armpits! HAHAHAHA
Me: =.=

Yup, I've spent enough time here, time to get those notes written.
 

Brrrainns

It's amazing how good I feel with a couple of hours of sleep under my belt =)

I realize that at times, I inadvertently (and please do trust me when I say that this is so)  say something unintentionally hurtful and/or insensitive, which well, hurts the people I care about. I do make an effort to watch my words, but if something slips out that really displeases you, please tell me, and I'll be more watchful in the future.

Just some thoughts on the issue of irreplaceable or not. I mean; objectively speaking, of course no one is irreplaceable, we'd be pretty screwed if there was such an individual, wouldn't we? Short of exhuming his corpse and reanimating it; we'd be pretty much helpless upon his death.

Test Subject #07511 They're still perfecting the technique...

So really, I don't think the issue should be whether someone's replaceable or not, since that's a moot point. What we (assuming we had any influence to change things, I mean) should be thinking is about is exactly how hard that person will be to replace. Obviously the PAP will be able to find someone to replace Mr Yeo, they have no lack of potential, with their focus on gathering "the future 4th generation leaders on Singapore", and that's setting aside the Second Minister for Foreign Affairs as well. But those potential 4th Gen leaders will need some grooming, some time to get up to speed, not to mention that they have huge shoes to fill. This will take time.

Haha but whatever, the deed is done, and from his defeat, apparently we've learnt that no politician is indispensable (A fallacious conclusion, in my opinion, which I'll talk more about later) and I wish him all the best in his future endeavors, and hope that his successor will be able to perform his role adequately. We'll still have him until latest 6 Nov though, so that's not too bad.

"Mr Yeo's defeat showed that no politician is indispensable" Kinda sounds like a hasty hypothesis doesn't it? Yes, Mr Yeo has played/plays a significant role in Singapore's politics, but - and I mean no disrespect by saying so - he was by no means the most important. I've previously toyed with the notion of a Singapore after MM Lee kicks the proverbial bucket and to be honest, I can't envision much of a future for us at all. This seems a timely junction to state that I'm thankful that he's doing his best to keep fit, I really admire his strength of will to keep going strong even at his age.  Yes, Singapore is showing signs of moving on; no longer are we the country dominated and driven (forwards, admittedly) by the man and his ideas, and his hardline comments during the elections raised more than a few eyebrows. But there is no denying the level of respect that he commands locally, even by the younger generation, as well as on the global level. And this has transferred in some way or another to the regard they have for Singapore. Yup so perhaps I'm not imaginative enough, but I can't even dream of Singapore without him. Let's hope he keeps in good health.

If not, there's always brain transplantation ;) Hey, maybe that's why we're bringing in such young, able-bodied politicians who are arguably not really ready to be ministers yet into parliament. Read: TPL. Barring that, we could use the following setup I guess:

It's Science!

I'd leave the brain in the vat theory for another time..Now time for GP. My priorities are sooo awesomely arranged.

 

 

 

 

Brrrainns

Yes. I want your brains. So hand them over. Other parts optional :)