hello there

Hmm, it's been quite a while since I last posted. Not that things have been maddeningly hectic; just couldn't cough up something worth writing.

Updates, you ask? Well, finally got inked. Love the design, loved the pain, and looking forward to the next one. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't painless; but my threshold for pain seems to have increased dramatically over the past few months. Which is good. I reckon the crisscrosses were far more painful than the needling, and even then, they merely stung, thanks to copious amounts of alcohol.

Barca gave Manure a 2-0 thrashing; a humbling lesson in football and grace. Great news. Hats off to the Catalans for emulating what Milan did in 2007 - thwarting the hordes from the EPL. On saying that, it'll be even greater news if Everton were to finally win a piece of silverware after umpteen years this Saturday. Fingers crossed. Maldini will play his last match this weekend; just one word - class. Absolute class. One would never find such a player in the EPL, that's for sure.

Love life is non-existent, surprise surprise. Even worse, more and more I find myself slipping away from my love (like?) interest; really need to cling on to something and haul myself back into the reckoning. Not that I was ever in the reckoning in the first place.

But hey, this is my piece of cyber property, so I'll delude myself as much as I want, thank you very much. So yeah, dammit! I need to start rubbing the twigs together and produce anything that resembles a flame, be it a minuscule spark or a wisp of smoke. Anything.

A laborious endeavour indeed.

Prometheus, where art thou?

are we clear now?

Clarity under intoxication

I'm still trying to articulate my thoughts on that. I've been saying it quite often these past few weeks, without really explaining what I mean; all of which has left some people wondering if I've got full control of my mental faculties. More so when I'm trying to express it over a drink, or six.

Here goes. First the disclaimer; this epiphany-like condition only applies now; previous bouts (read: ten years ago) were purely an exercise in futility in trying to shove everything in my head down the drain. Needless to say, the only thing that went down the drain was the contents of my abused guts. Onwards to 2009 (hope this isn't the start of a ten-year cycle).

I seriously reckon over-thinking is a disorder. I mean, it just sends you (me) down this downhill slope right into Despair Zone. Myriad scenarios, situation, outcomes and permutations race around my brain, in some damaging Brownian motion. Then wham! bam! The collision. And the realisation that everything will end in abject failure. Which is not pleasant, in whatever manner imaginable.

But with fermented rye and barley and wheat and God knows whatever else is put in liquor, the fog parts, to reveal the dark clouds. Therein lies the clarity. No what-ifs, no questions up in the air, no will-it-work-outs helter-skeltering about in this thick-skull. And for that moment in comforting intoxication, I know everything will come to naught. No buts, no maybes, just a stake-driven Nyet.

After all, what can be more welcome than the absolute truth, boiled in whiskey and garnished with ginger ale?

And the next morning, when everything is one smorgasbord of a mess, the carousel starts again.

Clarity under intoxication - now do you get it?

the world through a frosted mug

Why do I drink?

Why do you drink?

I don't mean having a sip or two, or a shot or three. I mean good ol' intoxication-induced drinking. The type where you stare blankly at the bill, unsure if you can't believe how much you've spent, or how much you've consumed. That's what I mean by 'drink'.

So yeah, why do you and I and anyone else who staggers away from a bar drink?

Which leads to a more profound question - does it matter?

And the answer is no, it doesn't.

Cause nothing really matters, to me (fade song).

where have all the days gone...?

How swiftly the weekend vanishes.

Hit the sack at 3AM, and next thing you know, the alarm's blaring at 7 on Monday morning. I know, time and tide wait for no man, but they could at least waltz by at a slower pace, couldn't they? Very inconsiderate of them.
One thing productive from the weekend, other than the bucket loads of sweat I oozed, is that I've more or less settled on my work of art. Have to run it by one or two 'advisers' and see what they think. But I'm quite pleased with the proposed piece, I must say.

On another note, I kinda like being 'convolutedly ambivalent'; it has a rather calming effect on my inner chakras. Fair enough, there's no such thing as 'convolutedly' but the meaning is pretty clear, no? Admittedly, I do get stirred up once in a while (with 'while' being rather frequent), but a couple of bitch slap and People's Elbows sees the restless feelings held down temporarily.

Which is why booze is definitely a humongous no-no for me. Sober, things are quite manageable. Sloshed, and out come the little demons for a bit of playground time, see-sawing and swinging about.

Oh, and I've really got to cut down on the smokes, like, totally. Been receiving lots of complaint messages from Mr Lungs and Mrs Heart. And I just hope situation down South doesn't take a turn for the worse. No, really.

And hey, note, no whining here this time around.

there are four jokers in a deck, y'know

First of all, I know what 'joker in the pack' means; someone who is unpredictable yah-dee-dah.

Now that I've highlighted my literary knowledge, I can move on to what I actually what I wanted to say. Every now and then, I get sick and tired of being a joker. Not in the pack, but in everything. Or, more accurately, being taken for a joker. After a while, who takes you seriously eh? You're expected to provide the laughs, the lawak bodoh, the antidote to everyone else's gloom.

Laugh a little less, and it's an immediate "something's wrong with him/ her". Crack one joke less, "something bothering you?" It's bemusing how easily people take others at face value. Get drunk once, and you're a drunkard for life. Sounds familiar to most of us, I'm sure.

I am entitled to a bad day or two, surprise surprise. Unbelievable, but even jesters toss their hats away and slump down on the chair, depressed or dismayed or upset or just plain saddened. And that's definitely hard to fathom for some, by the look of things.

Then again, question: do I give a damn?

Answer: Vehement, expletive-filled NO!

three nights in Bangkok and I'm none the wiser

So I'm back from Bangkok.

No use in whining and moaning; all roads lead back home, whether I like it or not. Just have to get on with things and look forward to the next getaway.

I find the word 'getaway' more spot-on than 'holiday' or 'vacation'. A momentary distraction to get away from the mess that I've created. Would it make sense if I said I was running away from myself? The only thinking I had to do was decide where to go, what to eat etc. And it was liberating for an all-too brief span of time. Nothing on this convoluted mind to paint a dark picture. Shopping was great, food was delectable (as usual) while the partying (albeit slightly muted) was pleasantly distracting. Though I must say, with all honesty, I mildly regret not doing one or two things in particular. Next time, definitely.

I know, I usually post the ins-and-outs of my trip. But things change. So this time, around I'm not reviewing the hotel, and the food and all the good things about Bangkok (which far outweigh KL). I wasn't keen on coming back, at least, not that soon. Enough of that, anyways.

They keep coming back. Think it's a name of a low-budget horror flick or something. Yeah, but they do. Just when I think I'm safely beyond their grasp, they just reach out and grab me, refusing to let go. I struggle and twist and turn, and I succeed, for a while. Before the whole dance starts again. I'm sure of the outcome, which will be inevitable failure; self-fulfilling prophecy and all.

I mean, I shouldn't kid myself eh?

round and round the mulberry bush

I think hectic barely describes today. Frantic, maybe. Or even helter skelter. Tomorrow's going to be even more so, I reckon.

At this very moment, I'm itching to head downtown for a bit of wining and grinding. Which will mean a late night out, and barely enough sleep for the flight tomorrow. Any sensible person would head home early to start packing and get enough mileage in slumberland; operative phrase being 'sensible person'. Somehow sensible and me haven't been seeing eye-to-eye for several weeks now.

I may be deluding myself, but I think, I think, I've lost a respectable two kilos over the past two weeks or so. If that's indeed the case, then woo-hooh! I'm not going to say it's due to the heavy drinking; that'd really make me delusional. Probably the fact that I haven't been supping late at night. Remember all that jazz about eat right, live right? Yeah, one out of two ain't half bad, mum.

For once, I'm going to stay away from the padkapaos. I'm serious. Okay, maybe I'll have one serving. Just one, mind you. And definitely no beers to chase the food down. Fingers crossed.

On a totally random out-of-the-air note, caring less had made me less, erm, depressing. Yes, that's not a grammatical error. Whatever fucking goes.

Okay, back to the post. Think a ten-minute nap, followed by some coffee, and I'll probably head home.

are we human or are we Dancer?

I think I'm a rather good dancer.

In the club, that is.

Yeah, there used to be moments when I wasn't inclined to move my arse off the stool as I knocked back shot after shot of whiskey.

But somehow the 'old' old me has managed to emerge from the thorns and shrubs and bushes that have enveloped me over the past ten years or so.

This XO me that used to head straight to the dance floor instead of the nearest spot on the bar. And it feels good, just moving and grooving (do they still use this word?) to the sound of the music. Five minutes on the elliptical, and I'm struggling to stay on my feet. Two hours on the dance floor, and I'm hoping it's not the last call for the night.

Maybe there's still some youngish blood running through my cholesterol-clogged veins; maybe I still have the tar-covered heart of a 20-year old. Who knows eh?

What I do know is that it feels liberating just prancing about without a care in my head; every dark page just flies out the window the moment the notes starts caressing my brain.

So yeah, just dance. And dance.

damages pending

Five days, and I haven't touched a drop of alcohol. Woo-hoo!

Thursday was a real bitch, considering I was so blood tempted. Sat myself down in Starbucks and OD-ed on caffeine instead.

Which isn't really a healthy alternative, but a safer alternative nevertheless. And even in Club 9 and Zouk and Envie and Twenty One, the temptation was driving me up the wall, but somehow I got through.

So here I am, sober as a judge, with not so much of a twinge of longing for drinks. Not yet, anyways.

The last straw was the doctor gently chiding me for my rate of consumption. And a cute doctor at that. So how could I go against her wishes eh? (wink wink)

But yeah, the damage to my body has been overwhelmingly painful, and that's putting it mildly. Probably over-drank Wednesday last week; there were angry welts all over my back, and rashes littered my arms and hands. Add to that the numerous cuts and bruises and swellings and I think it's a good thing I stopped while I was ahead. And we're not even going to talk about the damage inside my head.

I dance to forget, I drink to remember, and everything else just passes by.

So yeah, it's back to ginger ale and soda water for me. In no way have I exorcised the gremlins in my head (some have returned from the dead), neither have I addressed the issue at hand. But in a way, the resignation that I'll not get what I want has made me calmer, oddly enough.

The old me's dead and gone.

Not really. But such is life, eh?