On Adante

For an efficient, more-or-less developed nation, people in Singapore walk appallingly slowly. It's incredibly annoying being stuck behind a bunch of nattering girls when you're in a hurry. You attempt to overtake them but a big crowd comes by next to you in the underpass and you have no chance. Sometimes I feel like stepping on the backs of their feet and saying, "Oops, so sorry, I thought you were behind me."

The same goes for those rejects of humanity that spread-eagle themselves over the escalator, when the whole escalator ahead of them is empty.

On Spastication Redux

Well, the Evil Apple People (henceforth EAP) were there again. We were most horrifically trounced, mainly because:
1) There were more young, nubile EAP
2) We lacked cheerful, ebullient people to accost passers-by

After much deliberation, we decided to move our base of operations to the underground entrance of Orchard MRT Station. It was a rousing success because:
1) There were no EAP in the underground area, which is surprising, considering how prolific they were. Like cockroaches.
2) We had talented music-types like Daniel the flautist and Wen En the pianist and Steffy and Su Xin the singers and Clarence the everything.

At about 2pm, I popped back up from our warren, and discovered the EAP had been chased away by a raucous group of Malay skateboarders. There is a God, after all.

On Stupidisms

Thus begins my jihad against stupid people. The rosy-eared virgins await me in heaven.

On Spastication

I remember a long time ago, when I was on some skiing trip, my friend and I desperately wanted to complete this nifty "X-Men" arcade game. Being in our constant states of penury, we devised an ingenious way of raising funds. We would go around to our parents and siblings, saying in a loud, lilting voice, with our tongues hanging out, "Money for the poor and spasticated! Some money to help the poor and spasticated!". My sister found it hilarious.

Now, years later, I find myself legitimately raising money for the poor and spasticated. Today I learned what a cut-throat business fund raising is. We had staked out a spot outside the Orchard MRT station, until we decided it was a poor location and hence moved ourselves to the mosaic wall. After five minutes, we soon became aware of two old women jingling bells (which we did not have), and holding fat donation cans (which we did not have), and hawking apples (which we did not have).

Naturally, we were fairly annoyed to find competition, so we made the decision to move ourselves to Takashimaya. Upon moving closer, we found another bunch of old people foisting apples in an attempt to fleece the unsuspecting public and worst of all, take away our business.

So we moved to Borders. Five minutes after we got there, a throng of evil old apple people descended upon us like a pack of rabid Christians, and set up apple shop right opposite us! I was therefore left with no alternative but to put the Evil Eye on their apples, after Sheila demanded I not put the Eye on the decrepit old people themselves.

Old people are bad, but they're worse when they steal your business by selling apples. Apples, I ask you.

On Religion

It's a pity there are so many religions in the world. I'd love to form my own religion. I'd consign all the stupid people who irritate me (that's fairly redundant) to my own created hell.

Fire and brimstone and pitchforks are for the amateurs. Headscrews and thumbscrews and corkscrews [sic] are the way to go. Of course the mutilated body parts would just stay mutilated, causing unnatural amounts of pain. Emotional pain is good too. I'd just bottle depression and suicidal tendencies and feed it to sinners against me in great big doses. For poetic irony bottled depression would be pink.

And the best part about my religion and my hell? There is no Jesus to Harrow it.

On Ends

One day, you will attempt to make love to an automatic guillotine.

On Snails

Monica was a strange little girl. Everytime she came across a snail, she'd pick it up, and watch it pull itself into its shell. She was always fascinated how the shiny, sheeny, glistening thing would disappear, retracting into its dark spiral. In order to watch it over and over again, Monica always attempted to cajole the snail out of its shell.

She'd use a sharp needle and poke deep into the snail's shell, feeling it sink, softly, into the gelatious flesh, before withdrawing it; a long trail of translucent liquid dangling from the silver needle. Sometimes, she'd push the needle in, and move it around in circular motions in the vain hope of forcing the creature out. But the snail never came out.

So the needle would pierce deep again, drawing forth more amniotic-esque fluid, which often dripped dripped onto the floor. Over and over, she'd plunge the needle's silver end into the dark entrance of the shell. The snail never even poked its head out. It would die, silent, unkowing; its sluggish body a perforated, gooey mess that trickled pitifully out of the shell's hole.

Years later, a snail made it's slimy way down the wall of the seedy Thai clinic where Monica was undergoing an abortion.

On Games

After five years, I have suddenly taken up mahjong again. There is a certain perverse pleasure, not often experienced during card games, in making people pay you over and over again. A general feeling of well-being in making clickety-cack noises with your tiles. It's all very surreal, mahjong, especially since it induces you to speak in Cantonese just to get into the spirit of things.

On Difference

It is a plague to be different. It is a curse, to look upon the most ordinary objects and see in them a Medusa. I watch Mary Poppins and feel sorry for the queue of old nannies blown away, I wonder why Mary Poppins sticks out her rump when she floats and query why Michael looks as if he has AIDS.

It is joy to look upon Mindtrap and see my death, it is horror to lie on my bed, it is shock to awake, it is pain to attend a wedding, it is the last page to the first, it is to be different upon pain of torture and face of God, it is me.

On Tiles

I had such a nasty mahjong game today. My grandmother had such phenomenal luck, and kept drawing tiles she wanted. My aunt, meanwhile, was scoring doubles with such rapidity and rapaciousness it was quite alarming. Needless to say, I nearly went bankrupt, which annoys me dearly. I didn't even get to gong.

On Silliness

It is, in my erudite opinion, utterly egregious how stupid people let themselves become. And from whence do I derive this observation? From the Pre University Seminar, of all places. I was appalled by the questions people asked. Call me an elitist snob, but at least I don't let my stupidity show.

"Oh Mr. Tharman, darling, what ever should the government do to help those poor, defenseless entrepreneurial startups?"
Nothing, you silly little twit, why do you think it's called enterprise? But fair enough, you might not know that if you don't take economics.

Or how about, "If you build a Singapore hospital overseas, will you be using local or foreign workers to staff it?"
Hmm, I don't know, you ocified manatee, but we'll definitely use a Singaporean janitor, now that you've brought it to our attention!

I always thought the smelly old gits in Chinese High management and the government never knew what they were talking about when they went on and on about thinking out of the box. I hated the cliche so much, simply because I hated being part of it when I knew I wasn't. Never, ever, did I entertain a thought that it might be true.

But such boxes! Everywhere you go, everyone you talk to, you meet a new damn box. And I always have an urge to kick boxes.