In which the lack of sugar makes me severely cranky
I woke up to find myself still alive this morning, meaning that I yet again proceeded to spend the rest of the day devising a master plan to torture and/or kill myself. Preferably torture, and then kill. Because that is how I roll y'all. My latest attempt in a string of daily ventures to make my life utterly miserable involves losing 10 pounds in the next 8 weeks.
I've had a sugar addiction since young, mainly because my mother deprived me of all sweet things (Much good it did me!) until one day when I was ten, I magically grew brains and realized that even though mommy said I wasn't allowed? I could still eat them in secret and NOTHING WOULD HAPPEN. That was almost as shocking as discovering that the police don't arrest you the moment you leave a banana peel on the ground. Imagine how much fun I had from that moment on testing out almost every cautionary tale I knew. You don't touch the Boogeyman ones, of course. Just in case.
So, sugar addiction. And I love sugar. It makes me happy but fat. Therefore, no sugary treats until I drop 10 pounds! Also: Keep daily calorie count under 1300, and choose healthier alternatives such as... Whatever tastes like shit, I guess.
Chewing gum, however, does not count as a sugary treat, because I say so. Which brings us to my rant about Singapore. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get chewing gum in Singapore!? Granted, the ban on the sale, import and consumption of chewing gum was lifted in 2004, but right now only chewing gum with "therapeutic uses" are sold... IN PHARMACIES. The ban in Singapore wasn't lifted because it is fundamentally correct to give its citizens the right to consume gum, no. Alas, how could I even venture to suggest that it could be!? So why was the ban lifted? Because Singapore wanted the free trade agreement with the great U.S. of A, who wanted to sell gum in Singapore. And that is totally correct, what integrity I say! Changing the law based on foreign image and trade rather than principles. Who cares about principles anyways?
So, okay. Say I want to purchase a stick of chewing gum in Singapore. I have to go approach a pharmacist, ask for permission to buy the gum, and -- here's the kicker -- REGISTER FOR IT. Holy crap on a cat's red hat. Let's not even go into the limited range of brands available and also? ALSO? NO BUBBLE GUM. Tell me again why Singapore is a democracy? I honestly don't know anyone who had a say in this issue? Perhaps I am mistaken?
Srsly, you guys. Singapore makes me so profoundly embarrassed to be a citizen.
And now, allow me to turn our attention to the Americans out there reading this post this very moment. Please vote, and cast your vote based on more information than the 'R' or 'D' next to the candidate's name, or the brand or cut or fit of his clothes. Your country makes decisions that have repercussions on a global scale, and then your country will ask my country for support. And my country, wanting to kiss your country's ass in a politically correct manner, will of course oblige, dumbassU.S. President or not. So, really, you are not only voting for America's sake; you are also voting for Singapore's sake, and for my sake. So please. Go do your duty as an American and vote!
(Also, vote NO on Prop 8, to those of you Californians who care. Simply because when it comes to the enjoyment of civil rights, it shouldn't matter who you are.)
ACT III SCENE I. Kitchen. Family seated around the dining table, while MOTHER rushes from seat to seat attempting to halt global problems of top priority such as whether ANGELIQUE has a spoon.
MOTHER (To ANGELIQUE) Maybe you would like a spoon?
ANGELIQUE No.
MOTHER Hold on, I'll get you a spoon.
ANGELIQUE I don't need a spoon.
MOTHER I always keep the spoons in the fridge, so the cockroaches can't touch it at night. Clever, right? Here you go, a spoon.
FATHER I bought many of those I love you drinks.
MOTHER Many flavors you can try. There's lychee, longan with red dates, mango...
FATHER Open one now?
MOTHER Which bottle should I open? Longan and red dates?
ANGELIQUE Well--
MOTHER Longan and red dates, then.
BROTHER Why is the brand 'I Love You'.
FATHER Because I love you very much.
ANGELIQUE & BROTHER ...
MOTHER The uncle loves you very much.
FATHER Yeah, the uncle.
MOTHER You don't know the uncle?
FATHER The guy asked the uncle what flavors there are. So the uncle said, "You can try all of them!" The guy said, "Why!?" And the uncle said, "It's because I love you..." Then the girlfriend said, "HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE!"
ANGELIQUE & BROTHER (raising brows at each other) ...
MOTHER The brand's "All's Well".
FATHER "I Love You".
MOTHER No, advertisement.
ANGELIQUE (bewildered) ....................
MOTHER (To BROTHER) What's wrong with your sister? She looks very cheesed off.
This is where I will direct my lawyer to if we should ever need evidence of my Crazy
What surprises me the most is the fact that I actually survived this weekend. It's not that it was difficult to pull through, but rather simply that life placed me in a situation with a very high probability of demise, and that was dangerous. And I think that if anyone is qualified to say that circumstances are dangerous, it must be me, because as a pedestrian I habitually attract fast cars that try to run me over. The drivers presumably have anger management issues. Like attracts like.
I've long accepted the eventuality that I will be murdered by another person, or (and more likely) being flattened by the expensive vehicle of a depressed senior lawyer whose trophy twenty-something wife is cheating with his best friend and their multi-billionaire clients. And then he would successfully defend himself in court with perhaps a claim of temporary insanity and get off on that technicality, that bastard -- because we all know that sanity is a concept made up by a bunch of crazy people to help everyone pretend that our institutions and rules define a semblance of order amidst the inherent chaos of our daily actions and interactions.
There are the insane, and then there are the insane, and then there are the insane but much richer assholes who can afford to hire an army of attorneys, each of whom undoubtedly possess an abundant lack of conscience. Which, of course, people like me learn to overlook and reason away very neatly with the alleged fact that every single person deserves procedural equality, every single person deserves protection to the fullest extent that the law prescribes. Thus life comes full circle when the lawyer kills the lawyer and then escapes liability thanks to the lawyer. My point simply being that it makes perfect sense for me to be murdered.
My Saturday morning began at 9AM, four hours after I'd finally successfully won the wrestle against my conscience and wrote all the speeches I needed to defend my hypothetical client, whom I to this day believe on a balance of probabilities to be an ineffectual and unemployed full-time liar. Filing my conscience away, I then made my way to a law firm downtown where a legal practitioner (employed by that firm) examined our lawyering skills or lack thereof in a graded mock trial.
The attorney who presided over my trial as 'judge' then properly proceeded to systematically undermine and challenge anything one could get one's five-inch claws on, and here's the problem: I am not used to feeling stupid. While in real life I could confidently wrap the conversation around my comfort zone and/or change the subject to avoid questions I didn't like or didn't have an answer to, it is very different in court. You can't dodge a legal question by walking past a fast food restaurant, pretending not to hear said question, and then changing the subject with an enthusiastic exclamation about fast food. In court, there is no escape.
I messed up my witness re-examination by blanking out and failing to make my liar of a client seem less dishonest than opposing counsel made him out to be, and then spectacularly avoided a question about the applicability of a legal doctrine when I sought to apply that very same doctrine in the current case. And here's the kicker: I also messed up at the very beginning of the trial because I did not mark the bundles the right way. To which the honorable lawyer-judge responded rhetorically: "Counsel, is that how you mark the bundles?" To which I replied, "...Well Your Honor, I would mark them in any way convenient for your perusal." Complete with a facial expression that conveyed the deepest remorse. Because this is the kind of thing that gets me the Not Guilty verdict in the more forgiving real world... and of course it did not work here. The lawyer replied, "No, that is not the way to mark bundles." and then he proceeded to encapsulate my error in one sentence which I did not catch. Thus my dazzling performance at the graded mock trial was fashionably polka dotted with an impressively vast variety of errors.
The mistake at the very beginning must have helped immensely at lowering his expectations, because someone peeked at the paper he'd been scribbling on and told me that I got an excellent grade, one that I cannot be happier with. But I am a sophomore, and having spent a little over a year in law school, I am accustomed to feeling inadequate and inept, and so I spent the next hour (or five) mentally rebuking myself for my terrible performance because no one else seemed eager to do it for me. (You will comprehend the significance of this later, when I get to the bit about the very loud and incessant bawling.)
Later that day, I introduced BWTMIF and another friend to each other. We shared our stories, the confidential nature of which does not allow me to divulge details such as an ex's fascination with decapitated drawings as well as the love between one cow plushie and another cow plushie. And by 'love' of course I mean 'utterly compromising positions of a sexual nature'... if I were authorized to divulge such details, which of course I am not. The day was then culminated with the purchase of 1.5 litres of sparkling wine, sponsored (albeit unknowingly) by my father's bank account. I know this has been a long entry, but try and stay with me now because the bawling is coming soon.
At around 3AM on Sunday, BWTMIF and I put an awesome animation series on TV and then threw the wine into the mix. When I looked up hangover symptoms the next morning, I found a wikipedia entry stating that the best way to cure those symptoms was to avoid drinking, and I thought that it was the wisest and most useless piece of advice in the history of mankind. (I'm a social drinker -- I like to keep my tolerance low so that when I do need to get drunk, I don't need to drink too much to get a buzz. I also like my liver too much to want to kill it.)
On wikipedia, I also found a table of the progressive effects of alcohol [source]:
Somewhere in between the mild euphoria/joyousness and the hangover, the TV first started becoming incomprehensible, and then incomprehensibly funny (See table: Loss of Understanding). I remember something about the investigation of a mystery, and then suddenly there was a girl in a swimsuit, and then a cat. In that order. At the time BWTMIF and I found it hilarious. BWTMIF has vague memories of me dragging my head across the floor in a desperate attempt to move (See table: Sever Motor Impairment). After that it all went downhill.
I remember a sudden onset of sadness, and then suddenly I was yelling at BWTMIF about her duty of care that is part of the law, and legal, and illegal if not performed, and it was a DUTY OF CARE! And in my head I wanted to sue someone for failing to discharge their common law duty of care, because it was something that I genuinely cared about and I felt an overwhelming urgency on my part to yell at someone about it (See table: Over-Expression, Emotional Swings, Angry or Sad (or in my case, angry and sad). Why does this table not account for my Crazy? Could it be that my Crazy is innate!?)
BWTMIF later recounted that she tried her best to get away from my sobbing, and after a failed attempt at drinking water she went to the bathroom to change into another shirt because she spilled water on herself. The moment she moved away from me, the Crazy exploded all over the walls of the room and my sobbing became very energetic bawling (See table: Severe Depression). A very primal fear of abandonment took over and in my very drunk head it made sense to fight against it by weeping very, very loudly. While yelling DUTY OF CAAAAAAAAAARE in between howls. Can you say deep-seated psychological issues!? It took more than fifteen hours for the effect of the alcohol to dissipate, and now that it's gone I feel really strange because all the anger and sadness was released so suddenly and so quickly, it feels like I'd never been to law school.
Which brings me to the underlying moral story of this entry, kids: Alcohol is bad (see table: Possible Death), but law school is much worse. I'd been unable to cry properly for so long that I'd forgotten that sometimes I need that, I need to lift the lid on the overflowing cauldron of emotions to let the steam out, or risk having the Crazy suddenly explode. So fellow law students out there who really suck at law school like me, who like me have considered and resisted quitting the law, I say to you: Evidently I have more issues than most people do. I am still taking law school one day at a time, and I am sure therefore that you can hang it there too.
One day law school too shall end, and then we can drive our flashy cars and run over people and get an acquittal on technicalities, and in doing so accumulate so much bad karma that we get run over by cars ourselves. And all will be right with the world, my friend. All will be right with the world.
I don't think some people realize how potentially offensive it can be to tell a person (let's call this hypothetically gay boy of mine X) to change his sexuality, even though X is totally comfortable with it... because other people are not totally comfortable with it. In the first place, why should anyone think that X has an obligation to give a rat's ass about their opinion? But then again one of my closest friends in law school (BWTMIF) diagnosed me with autism, so I guess I would naturally have zero understanding of the way society works. It's just... It amazes me how incredibly selfish that act is.
Hypothetically, if you were one of the few heterosexuals in a culture of homosexuality, would you feel pressured to change? I wonder how it would feel if someone came up to you and whispered surreptitiously into your ears, "Try to be gay. Being straight is wrong." Imagine if he'd said it in such hushed and furtive tones that they suddenly make you realize how thoroughly embarrassed he is to know that you are different. You'd be his freak friend, the freak story he tells his colleagues, and as the years pass you'd quietly accept that maybe it'd be easier to pretend, easier to find acceptance and marriage with maybe a hope of love.
[Edit] Oh on an irrelevant note, apparently some repressed straight person (RSP) made up the rumor that BWTMIF and I are engaging in sexual relations. Allow me to clarify. RSP, unlike you (and as autistic as I allegedly am), I can actually maintain a healthy intimate social bond without having to undress. I know I know, it must be like a total culture shock to you. But for my sake, pretend to understand it so I don't have yet another reason to conclude that you're a complete fucktard. [/Edit]
Free gift below! Read on. Damn am I good at marketing. :)
For some reason I found myself on the website of the Ministry of Manpower (just some government ministry of Singapore, for our non-Singaporean friends) and realized that all my childhood, I have been lied to. What a surprise, I know. In addition to the boogieman under my bed, the cockroaches that are supposed to mysteriously appear in my drawers if I don't periodically organize my stuff and the magical ability to turn into a garbage collector once I get an F on any assignment, I can now add to this list of profound lies the one that says that any day is a special day.
What made me stumble upon this enlightening discovery? A random article from the tangled depths of the Internets that declared Deepavali (a religious public holiday) to be shifted a day forward to October 27, 2008 because it had to be checked against the Indian Almanac -- even though it had been celebrated for years before on October 28.
Which made me think: Hypothetically, if all the Christians in Singapore were suddenly busy on December 25, I'm pretty sure we would make some other day Christmas Day. In fact, we already do that for public holidays falling on a Sunday: The following Monday will be declared a public holiday.
So really, when we can pick and choose days convenient to us, when the date itself is hardly as significant as the thought that sort of counts (or for some of us, the thought of another day off), why don't we celebrate our birthdays more often? Like, say, monthly?
In view of this, I declare today Present Day!
Evidently I have read too many corny chain emails sincerely professing that today is a gift, that's why it is called the present! So why doesn't 'future' have a layer of meaning other than 'what lies ahead'? Is it because it holds no deeper meaning? HA! GOTCHA.
Anyways. In celebration of Present Day, you are encouraged to send hugs and e-cards and all sorts of frivolous things to the people you care about, preferably spending lots of money in the process because what is true love and concern when it isn't accompanied by extravagant expenditure of a commercial nature, right?
Since Where's Mama? has finally been updated, one lucky blog reader will get a present: One free item of your choice from the Itsy Bitsy Tweetsie Collection. All you have to do is to email me or leave a comment on this entry (with a valid email address) telling me what change you foresee in the future. Feel free to interpret this as broadly or narrowly as you would like. I know I totally see Obama as President of the United States. I will draw lots on October 24, 2008 to find our winner! This lucky draw is open to anyone, wherever in the world you are located, except Neptune who is special enough to be barred from entering because she is my penguin.
And yes, in the few lucid moments that I have enjoyed today, it did become somewhat clear that this may be incredibly futile in the wider scheme of things. But indulge my narrow mind because I am a lonely law student with a mid-term exam on Tuesday. I need something to take my mind off the (mental) institution that is stifling my creativity too well.
P.S. Facebook fans, you awesome people get two lots each so you have a higher chance of winning! Also, all you dear readers, because I love you so much, you enjoy free shipping on purchases above $30 for the month of October. Just let me know when you make your order. Yay!
Happy Present Day!
[Update] And our lucky winner is....... Beth K.! Congrats! Check your email for the details :) [/Update]
Internets, my mom is talking to my hamsters. This happens very often of course, her procuring intellectual stimulation from a monologue which my poor hammies have to listen to every single time she approaches the cage, but last night I made a mental note of what she said, and here it is, unedited:
"Good eeeeeeeeeevening![1] Hungryyyyyy? Are you hungryyyy? [pause] Sunflower seeeeed? Makiiii! Sunflower seeeeeeeeed? Sunflower seeeeed you know?? Mochiiiii? Your favorite sunflower seed~! Cannot pee![2] AY. CANNOT PEE! MO.CHI! CANNOT! PEE! HERE! Put you in the toilet. Smell your pee? Come, smell your pee? See, pee goes in the pee box![3] DON'T RUN AWAY! Naughty girl! Don't give you sunflower seed. Makiii~ You want sunflower seed? Good girl. Look at me? Hey, look at me. Look at meeeee~... Why you ignore me. Food? You two want food...? No? Going once? Going twice? Fine. No more food for you. Sleepy so fast!? Sleepy pigs. Okay okay I'll let you sleep. Goodnight~"
[1] I don't think she has ever wished me 'good evening'. [2] My hammies pee when they are afraid. [3] Later my mom told me that whenever a hammie pees where it's not supposed to, my mom wipes the pee with a piece of bedding, rubs the soiled bedding in the hammie's nose and then places the soiled bedding in the designated toilet. This is supposed to help the hammie understand that pee goes in that box. So far, it has not worked.
While this may sound like a valid cause for concern to most of you normal folk reading this right now, I assure you that nothing has made me happier than the fact that she would rather converse with rodents, two of whom prefer to sleep in a box of their own poopings. In fact, I get the feeling that my mom is becoming more tolerant of my temper these days. I guess everything looks better when you compare your daughter with hamsters that eat their own poopery and aren't toilet-trained. I love my hammies. Being compared to them is doing good things for my ego.
Man almost loses manhood while thinking with penis:
Subtitles begin around 0:14.
I thought they'd cut his dick off to free him, but unfortunately they didn't. Anyway. There is a lesson to learn here, people: When in doubt, imagine the worst case scenario.. broadcast on the Internet. And then move away from whatever might lead to that sort of comedy.
It's raining noodles! Hallelujah! And the noodles shall inherit the earth!
If you know me, pretend you don't. If you don't know me, don't pretend you do.
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