Latest update in my occupational life:
I have decided to become a full-time tutor -- after the series of job-hunting interviews, from F & B to office nine-to-five positions. F & B's rejected me either because of the fact I can't work at night and refuse Sundays, or because I intimidated my interviewers with my excessive chattering. As for the office positions, one looked highly suspicious with a questionably too handsome, too young (before mid-20s definitely) and too smiley (he smiled more than I did -- imagine that!) interviewer while the other 3-month Data Entry senang job at American Express didn't appeal to me (I'd probably quit within 3 hours).
Apparently as I was making the life-transforming (at least for the next 6 months of my life) decision whether to take up tuition full-time (or none at all) or a regular job, I was offered 2 more tuition assignments within the hour (in addition to the 2 that I had accepted earlier this week). Was God hinting to me shouting directions at me?
So at this current moment, I have 4 students, and I'm still considering MOE's relief teaching scheme.
I had my first session with my first student yesterday afternoon, a small-framed, probably pre-pubescent Sec 2 (Normal Academic) boy in Tampines. Although I headed towards my new workplace with some inertia (the knowledge that I was about to begin bearing the responsibilities of teaching again) and apprehension (of what the child -- and his mother -- would be like), I found myself enjoying and reviving my old fondness of communicating with students and teaching (something I've not done since last year when I ended my stint with a repeat 'N' Level student my age, and her Sec 2 brother).
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
The Plom (3 Dec) – That’s What My (albeit English-educated) Grandma From Malaysia Calls It
The Plom was a disaster.
The gown (a full-length maroon one, the first that I tried and my Mum insisted was the only one I looked decent in) was fine, the underwear wasn’t.
I refused to wear a thong that would, as a result of its lack of supporting presence, unleash seismic activity of untold magnitudes in my generous semi-solid butt cheeks with every step I take. Consequently, the next alternative was box-shorts. I wore a granny-like underwear (branded Elle to lessen the image of granniness) which I bought several months ago in Malaysia (where I do my annual shopping) and never wore until such a big night (big in relation to the level of youthful excitement in my life). A terrible mistake it was. For the first time, I had donned on an oversized undergarment (I have never been given the opportunity to encounter any underwear which is “too big” given the generous endowment of my twin-bearing hips). Getting wedgies wasn’t exactly a comfortable memory, it resulting in my approximate 5 trips to the Ladies’ (no one says “toilets” at a Plom) within the 3 hours I was in the Orchard Hotel function room.
That was just a synopsis of the general Plom experience. The real beginning was before the Plom.
I was late, really late (estimated from the 2-3 dishes that had already been served by the time I arrived). I had finish off singing with the youth choir at a church wedding (all Singaporean weddings begin late, even those involving appointments with God) and fetched my make-up artist (courtesy of TFYE’s Aveline, Art student from VJC) on the way home, prior to the “big” (relative again) make-over session. After all that was slapped onto my face and hair, we were on our way…
The trepidation I experienced through the car journey was one of regret (of getting conned into going for the Plom, a once-in-a-life-time experience – in rational reality, an experience I could have been happier without) and expected embarrassment. Mum told me not to fret; I wouldn’t be significant at the Plom where everyone was all dolled up anyway (in contrast to Ly’s “Steal the limelight, Sweetheart.”). Mum’s advice, as usual, was the more accurate of the two. Nevertheless and more naturally, Ly’s comment stuck to me during the journey, for both its sweethearty flattering element and potential likelihood of materialising as shall be explained in the following paragraph).
Plaguing my mind through the car ride was the scene of me clumsily strutting in 1.5 hours long overdue, into a hall where everyone had comfortably been seated and settled. In addition to that, while making my way dazedly halfway through the hall to my table and being the awkward late Cinderel-lah, I would then trip over my gown/heels/self and zao-geng (literally translated: “run (head)lights” – flash in Singaporean lingo). And worse yet – in my granny undies.
Anyway, in spite of the vivid imagination, that didn’t happen.
What really happened was:
I called Jonah (one of my only 2 male comrades who were at the Plom) to come down to the lobby to bring me up. No, not to show off, but simply to have someone to laugh with should I plom on the red carpet at the Plom. He came with YC, and both, in the most complimenting male manner, told me my make-up was “Wow!” – “like a wall, cannot penetrate one”.
We went up together after snapping a quick photo in front the hotel’s Chrismas tree, with me flanked by the two men on both sides.
I was both dazed and late as anticipated, but the noise spouted from the hired host and grossly magnified through the PA system, was so overpowering that it even impeded the visual ability of the plommers. More importantly, I did not trip. Hence no one noticed me as I snuck in as inconspicuously as Weiling possibly could.
My table: 9.5 girls.
The 9 full-fledge girls sat elegantly at the table, dolled up and looking demure and pretty – with lips sweetly pursed behind the judgmental running commentaries in their heads that would verbalise shortly in the “privacy” of the Ladies’.
Very kindly, Janna had kept food from the earlier dishes for me. So there I was, late and the only one eating greedily. The other dishes came, and left barely touched. In her absolute copyright trademark, Amanda who was seated next to me, rolled her eyes and commented, “The food sucks right?”
Oh yes it did, but I still ate enough of it to make up for at least $3 of the $65 ticket. We were dished Muslim food – Briyani rice with spiceless curry and Kembing soup in place of fake sharks’ fin soup… after which, all was a blur.
The girls didn’t eat – either by virtue of the detestable idea of having been served Muslim food at a formal dinner (when we had no Muslims at our table), and/or the restrictive gowns that fitted too snugly on their bodies that did not allow the slightest intestinal expansion.
I spent most of the Plom correcting wedgies in the Ladies’ or standing outside the hall, in the depressed and pathetic gait of regret and loneliness due to the absence of my male comrades. I could neither bear the company of silent pretty ladies (whose only words came when criticising the choice of dressing made by the lucky-draw winners and when gathering each other for flash photography) nor the juxtaposing noise of the Plom affair consisting of the dreadful but well-meant JC1 performances, loud not-my-glass-of-Milo music and the raucous host.
I guess what made the night for me was when Ly came to my rescue around 1AM, picking me up from the hotel room.
The guys and I had adjourned to the hotel room to escape the uneventful Plom. The guys took more photos of themselves in their tuxes than I, 0.5 female, did of myself (and the poses in which they chose to capture themselves historically on film made me rethink the vanity of men).
Ly, who had taken sleeping time off the church camp he was vice-chairman of, drove me home (partly on Mum’s strict “not too late” and “have someone sent you home” instructions), but stopped over at his place where he cooked up a 15min Maggi Mee dish (“elaborated” with prawns and slices of meat) while I konked out on the sofa. Maggie Mee with Ly – the best dish of the Plom night.
The gown (a full-length maroon one, the first that I tried and my Mum insisted was the only one I looked decent in) was fine, the underwear wasn’t.
I refused to wear a thong that would, as a result of its lack of supporting presence, unleash seismic activity of untold magnitudes in my generous semi-solid butt cheeks with every step I take. Consequently, the next alternative was box-shorts. I wore a granny-like underwear (branded Elle to lessen the image of granniness) which I bought several months ago in Malaysia (where I do my annual shopping) and never wore until such a big night (big in relation to the level of youthful excitement in my life). A terrible mistake it was. For the first time, I had donned on an oversized undergarment (I have never been given the opportunity to encounter any underwear which is “too big” given the generous endowment of my twin-bearing hips). Getting wedgies wasn’t exactly a comfortable memory, it resulting in my approximate 5 trips to the Ladies’ (no one says “toilets” at a Plom) within the 3 hours I was in the Orchard Hotel function room.
That was just a synopsis of the general Plom experience. The real beginning was before the Plom.
I was late, really late (estimated from the 2-3 dishes that had already been served by the time I arrived). I had finish off singing with the youth choir at a church wedding (all Singaporean weddings begin late, even those involving appointments with God) and fetched my make-up artist (courtesy of TFYE’s Aveline, Art student from VJC) on the way home, prior to the “big” (relative again) make-over session. After all that was slapped onto my face and hair, we were on our way…
The trepidation I experienced through the car journey was one of regret (of getting conned into going for the Plom, a once-in-a-life-time experience – in rational reality, an experience I could have been happier without) and expected embarrassment. Mum told me not to fret; I wouldn’t be significant at the Plom where everyone was all dolled up anyway (in contrast to Ly’s “Steal the limelight, Sweetheart.”). Mum’s advice, as usual, was the more accurate of the two. Nevertheless and more naturally, Ly’s comment stuck to me during the journey, for both its sweethearty flattering element and potential likelihood of materialising as shall be explained in the following paragraph).
Plaguing my mind through the car ride was the scene of me clumsily strutting in 1.5 hours long overdue, into a hall where everyone had comfortably been seated and settled. In addition to that, while making my way dazedly halfway through the hall to my table and being the awkward late Cinderel-lah, I would then trip over my gown/heels/self and zao-geng (literally translated: “run (head)lights” – flash in Singaporean lingo). And worse yet – in my granny undies.
Anyway, in spite of the vivid imagination, that didn’t happen.
What really happened was:
I called Jonah (one of my only 2 male comrades who were at the Plom) to come down to the lobby to bring me up. No, not to show off, but simply to have someone to laugh with should I plom on the red carpet at the Plom. He came with YC, and both, in the most complimenting male manner, told me my make-up was “Wow!” – “like a wall, cannot penetrate one”.
We went up together after snapping a quick photo in front the hotel’s Chrismas tree, with me flanked by the two men on both sides.
I was both dazed and late as anticipated, but the noise spouted from the hired host and grossly magnified through the PA system, was so overpowering that it even impeded the visual ability of the plommers. More importantly, I did not trip. Hence no one noticed me as I snuck in as inconspicuously as Weiling possibly could.
My table: 9.5 girls.
The 9 full-fledge girls sat elegantly at the table, dolled up and looking demure and pretty – with lips sweetly pursed behind the judgmental running commentaries in their heads that would verbalise shortly in the “privacy” of the Ladies’.
Very kindly, Janna had kept food from the earlier dishes for me. So there I was, late and the only one eating greedily. The other dishes came, and left barely touched. In her absolute copyright trademark, Amanda who was seated next to me, rolled her eyes and commented, “The food sucks right?”
Oh yes it did, but I still ate enough of it to make up for at least $3 of the $65 ticket. We were dished Muslim food – Briyani rice with spiceless curry and Kembing soup in place of fake sharks’ fin soup… after which, all was a blur.
The girls didn’t eat – either by virtue of the detestable idea of having been served Muslim food at a formal dinner (when we had no Muslims at our table), and/or the restrictive gowns that fitted too snugly on their bodies that did not allow the slightest intestinal expansion.
I spent most of the Plom correcting wedgies in the Ladies’ or standing outside the hall, in the depressed and pathetic gait of regret and loneliness due to the absence of my male comrades. I could neither bear the company of silent pretty ladies (whose only words came when criticising the choice of dressing made by the lucky-draw winners and when gathering each other for flash photography) nor the juxtaposing noise of the Plom affair consisting of the dreadful but well-meant JC1 performances, loud not-my-glass-of-Milo music and the raucous host.
I guess what made the night for me was when Ly came to my rescue around 1AM, picking me up from the hotel room.
The guys and I had adjourned to the hotel room to escape the uneventful Plom. The guys took more photos of themselves in their tuxes than I, 0.5 female, did of myself (and the poses in which they chose to capture themselves historically on film made me rethink the vanity of men).
Ly, who had taken sleeping time off the church camp he was vice-chairman of, drove me home (partly on Mum’s strict “not too late” and “have someone sent you home” instructions), but stopped over at his place where he cooked up a 15min Maggi Mee dish (“elaborated” with prawns and slices of meat) while I konked out on the sofa. Maggie Mee with Ly – the best dish of the Plom night.
Friday, October 31, 2003
China Spits On Singapore
The rapture has begun, with China in the lead (assume they’re Christians just for this analogy). The population of PRC rises towards heaven with their dowdy communist grey suits. They make a transit in the skies above Singapore. A shadow is cast upon the island as the entire drab mass blocks off all sunlight. No ray escapes the numbers. Suddenly the populace, in traditional Chinese idiosyncratic culture, rakes up their internal fluids in the unity of red brotherhood. With a final gruff effort, they expectorate. Gravity takes the spittle a long way though the stratosphere and matter-of-factly splats across the Lion City.
The above was inspired by a metaphor used by a student in my school and re-cited by a teacher during a post-mortem of one of the many periodic internal JC exams:
“Singapore is so small that if everyone in China was to spit on Singapore, our tiny island would be submerged!”
The sky is hurling buckets of water down Singapore (or at least all of Bedok and Tampines) while children of the wind play “Catch” and indiscriminately fling water-bombs in the playground of my home, a box neatly stacked on the sixth level of one of the many blocks in Aquarius By The Park (by the way, my room is by the longkang).
I squeal in utmost girliness at the storm washing the exterior walls of my flat, the pseudo-threatening thunder, the sudden plummet in the temperature, the sheer feeling of being protected and potentially-warm in this cosy (euphemistic for small) apartment, as well as with my open-arm welcome of any form of distraction from the study of Economics (Keynesian’s multiplier process).
I do my Ah-Soh scamper (in a pink housecoat with prints of cartoon children sewn upside down) though the house shutting windows, pulling in the clothes, sliding close the balcony door and wrestling with the backyard door (whose glass pane once shattered upon the impact of the door slamming shut – the product of the potent wrath of a previous storm).
As I do all these, I sing multiple obscenely atrocious cover versions of “What The World Needs Now (is love, sweet love)” near the top of my voice, ending each disfigured version and beginning another unrecognisable one upon hitting the part where my knowledge of the lyrics has never developed.
While my raucous insanity musters me and I (now) walk through the house calmer, room by room, to do my spot-check of the windows and planting my music in every corner, half my room is getting flooded. The parquet threatens to warp and rot as I let out a blonde’s shriek. I talk to myself, aloud, reprimanding and complaining. My monologue/dialogue sounds so convincing, I frighten myself.
The above was inspired by a metaphor used by a student in my school and re-cited by a teacher during a post-mortem of one of the many periodic internal JC exams:
“Singapore is so small that if everyone in China was to spit on Singapore, our tiny island would be submerged!”
The sky is hurling buckets of water down Singapore (or at least all of Bedok and Tampines) while children of the wind play “Catch” and indiscriminately fling water-bombs in the playground of my home, a box neatly stacked on the sixth level of one of the many blocks in Aquarius By The Park (by the way, my room is by the longkang).
I squeal in utmost girliness at the storm washing the exterior walls of my flat, the pseudo-threatening thunder, the sudden plummet in the temperature, the sheer feeling of being protected and potentially-warm in this cosy (euphemistic for small) apartment, as well as with my open-arm welcome of any form of distraction from the study of Economics (Keynesian’s multiplier process).
I do my Ah-Soh scamper (in a pink housecoat with prints of cartoon children sewn upside down) though the house shutting windows, pulling in the clothes, sliding close the balcony door and wrestling with the backyard door (whose glass pane once shattered upon the impact of the door slamming shut – the product of the potent wrath of a previous storm).
As I do all these, I sing multiple obscenely atrocious cover versions of “What The World Needs Now (is love, sweet love)” near the top of my voice, ending each disfigured version and beginning another unrecognisable one upon hitting the part where my knowledge of the lyrics has never developed.
While my raucous insanity musters me and I (now) walk through the house calmer, room by room, to do my spot-check of the windows and planting my music in every corner, half my room is getting flooded. The parquet threatens to warp and rot as I let out a blonde’s shriek. I talk to myself, aloud, reprimanding and complaining. My monologue/dialogue sounds so convincing, I frighten myself.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Dear God,
I feel like shit. I feel like dying – perhaps not forever – just a few days. But I have no time to die. The ‘A’ levels are in less than 3 weeks away. I’ve been waking up the last few mornings feeling tired, feeling unslept. I usually get my 7-8 hours, but I still feel like shit in the morning. My palpitations are killing me. They drain me of energy, from my mind to my fingers. I can’t concentrate; I have no energy, much less strength. I can’t even pray. My mind’s all over the place, or in nowhere; it’s racing through so many things, or nothing.
I feel like giving up. Just a little. I don’t even know what I want. I don’t want to give up, but I feel like doing so now. Not forever, just a while, maybe 3 days. But I can’t afford it. God, I feel like shit.
Last night, I had a bad bout of palpitations just doing my quiet time. My heart was beating fast, and later, after it slowed down, it was pounding hard against my chest. It’s just my heart, probably the size of my fist, barely 3% of my body mass, yet it controls my whole body. When Ly came last night, I told him I felt like dying, I really did. I felt as if my life was draining away with each heartbeat. It was like I was on my deathbed, dying gradually and quite TV-ish, not really suffering, just slowly giving up my life.
I’m not exhausted now. I think it’s lethargy. Lethargy and exhaustion still produce the same effect on me, more or less. Lethargy’s technically not so bad; perhaps I only need something, someone to jolt me out of lethargy. Exhaustion is terrible. I get weak all over, to the point of helplessness. A burglar can come in, and I can’t do anything, can’t even open my mouth to scream for help.
God, I feel like shit. I just want to cry now. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m behind my study schedule. I can’t stop and rest.
Well, God, at least I’ll thank you for tears now. I’m more in control of them then my mind or body. When I let them out, I feel better, even if it’s for a while. But couldn’t you have made them less itching? My eyes itch when I cry.
I just want to lie cradled in your arms now, away from everything, away from myself.
I feel like giving up. Just a little. I don’t even know what I want. I don’t want to give up, but I feel like doing so now. Not forever, just a while, maybe 3 days. But I can’t afford it. God, I feel like shit.
Last night, I had a bad bout of palpitations just doing my quiet time. My heart was beating fast, and later, after it slowed down, it was pounding hard against my chest. It’s just my heart, probably the size of my fist, barely 3% of my body mass, yet it controls my whole body. When Ly came last night, I told him I felt like dying, I really did. I felt as if my life was draining away with each heartbeat. It was like I was on my deathbed, dying gradually and quite TV-ish, not really suffering, just slowly giving up my life.
I’m not exhausted now. I think it’s lethargy. Lethargy and exhaustion still produce the same effect on me, more or less. Lethargy’s technically not so bad; perhaps I only need something, someone to jolt me out of lethargy. Exhaustion is terrible. I get weak all over, to the point of helplessness. A burglar can come in, and I can’t do anything, can’t even open my mouth to scream for help.
God, I feel like shit. I just want to cry now. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m behind my study schedule. I can’t stop and rest.
Well, God, at least I’ll thank you for tears now. I’m more in control of them then my mind or body. When I let them out, I feel better, even if it’s for a while. But couldn’t you have made them less itching? My eyes itch when I cry.
I just want to lie cradled in your arms now, away from everything, away from myself.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Boys Who Should Be Hung For The Cold-Blooded Murder Of The English Tongue
Blogstipation – I read that in The Straits Times Sunday Life. I suppose that’s what I have now. How exciting and public can my life get when I’m out of school? Technically and probably scientifically proven, being out of school should enhance any Singaporean’s life. However, it hasn’t quite done so in the ‘publicisable’ arena (i.e. mundane niceties) of mine.
The latest news that’s at the top of my head now is that my parents have just got me a $22 blender that can’t quite beat up watermelon pieces very well because of its poor design (where the blades don’t attack every possible corner of the ridiculously huge blending jug). Nevertheless, I’m still appreciative of this new toy. It makes staying at home versus going to Simei’s Burger King (and making friends with Jason, a TJC Primary-5-looking boy, the resident of the corner window seat at all times) possibly a more contentious issue. Speaking of Jason, I told him I was shocked he spoke English. He laughed at me, but I suppose he understood a little better why I was surprised when I explained my encounters with boys.
I was in a SAP primary school (Kong Hwa – one of the infamous 5 Hokkien Huay Kuan schools in the league of Tao Nan, that mothers desperately want their clueless 6-year-olds in), where practically all the little humans are cheenafied in dangerously high concentration levels. The only English that is spoken is a grotesque though natural fusion of Chinese, dialect and unintelligible grammar.
Before I felt that all Singaporean kids couldn’t speak English, I moved on to Tanjong Katong Girls’ – an all girls school with the majority of the population as terrified by all things Chinese as I was. The only encounter I had with boys during those 4 years was with those from Saint Patrick’s (generally above-average looking male adolescent specimens whose 'Pheromonic' scent overcomes the pleasant exterior, particularly on crowded afternoon Bus 10's). St. Pat’s boys speak 2 languages, English and Vulgaritese. Again, while English is vaguely spoken, it is heavily adulterated with elements from another language.
SAJC wasn’t very much better in proving my male peers to be capable of speaking decent English in her pure form (a combination of Kong Hwaians’ English and St. Pat’s English). Of course, there were the rare few – out of which half are metrosexuals.
Thus at the end of the day, it isn’t problematical understanding why I was stunned at Jason – a pure-English-speaking boy, who came from Anglican High (another cheenafied SAP school) and is currently in the infamous-for-cheenafication Temasek JC.
The latest news that’s at the top of my head now is that my parents have just got me a $22 blender that can’t quite beat up watermelon pieces very well because of its poor design (where the blades don’t attack every possible corner of the ridiculously huge blending jug). Nevertheless, I’m still appreciative of this new toy. It makes staying at home versus going to Simei’s Burger King (and making friends with Jason, a TJC Primary-5-looking boy, the resident of the corner window seat at all times) possibly a more contentious issue. Speaking of Jason, I told him I was shocked he spoke English. He laughed at me, but I suppose he understood a little better why I was surprised when I explained my encounters with boys.
I was in a SAP primary school (Kong Hwa – one of the infamous 5 Hokkien Huay Kuan schools in the league of Tao Nan, that mothers desperately want their clueless 6-year-olds in), where practically all the little humans are cheenafied in dangerously high concentration levels. The only English that is spoken is a grotesque though natural fusion of Chinese, dialect and unintelligible grammar.
Before I felt that all Singaporean kids couldn’t speak English, I moved on to Tanjong Katong Girls’ – an all girls school with the majority of the population as terrified by all things Chinese as I was. The only encounter I had with boys during those 4 years was with those from Saint Patrick’s (generally above-average looking male adolescent specimens whose 'Pheromonic' scent overcomes the pleasant exterior, particularly on crowded afternoon Bus 10's). St. Pat’s boys speak 2 languages, English and Vulgaritese. Again, while English is vaguely spoken, it is heavily adulterated with elements from another language.
SAJC wasn’t very much better in proving my male peers to be capable of speaking decent English in her pure form (a combination of Kong Hwaians’ English and St. Pat’s English). Of course, there were the rare few – out of which half are metrosexuals.
Thus at the end of the day, it isn’t problematical understanding why I was stunned at Jason – a pure-English-speaking boy, who came from Anglican High (another cheenafied SAP school) and is currently in the infamous-for-cheenafication Temasek JC.
Monday, October 13, 2003
Saying Goodbye
I’ve been reading farewell blogs – Joshua, Janelle and Georgina’s to be exact. The feeling of leaving and a certain have-to-move-on-and-leave-the-last-1.5-years-of-my-life-behind is plaguing me. It's been 3 days since the much-blogged about Farewell Assembly. Time always dilutes some emotions.
Janelle, you were wrong about no one crying during the farewell lecture and assembly.
Melancholy rules these days.
I've been stealing digital-cam photos off Gan's and Janelle's online photo galleries. I have saved a WinWord file titled "Farewell Blogs". Janelle's, Joshua's and Georgina's ones are the 3 entries in this file.
Thanks for picking up the memorable aspects of SAJC/02.A12/Divving...
My mind's not working. I'm weak, all over.
Anyway, here's the late MRT entry penned on 9 October, Thursday:
I am probably sentimental – perhaps in a practical and less obvious way, or perhaps the old man Mr Wee’s fondness of memories have rubbed onto me in the past week.
Leaving Tanjong Katong Girls’ wasn’t quite that big an emotional event compared to parting with college life. Today, I had my last lecture (Econs) and last tutorial (GP). I didn’t feel anything during those lessons that were relevant to the current reflective mood I’m in now. I’m on the train again.
(It appears that train journeys always see me consolidating the day’s events, thoughts and emotions, to add a more meaningful experience of the day to my life’s archives.)
Tomorrow’s the farewell assembly – my last official day as a student of Saint Andrew’s Junior College. From then on, the school no longer has any responsibility or even much control over me. The threat of detention due to misconduct no longer applies, the daily routine of waking up at 6 and trying to hit the assembly ground before K does is permanently broken.
While technically, I’ll still be in school for the A Levels in November, I still see the past few days as extra meaningful. Maybe this reminiscing mode is a less known component of my psyche – trying to seek significance and purpose in everything, including my past.
Janelle, you were wrong about no one crying during the farewell lecture and assembly.
Melancholy rules these days.
I've been stealing digital-cam photos off Gan's and Janelle's online photo galleries. I have saved a WinWord file titled "Farewell Blogs". Janelle's, Joshua's and Georgina's ones are the 3 entries in this file.
Thanks for picking up the memorable aspects of SAJC/02.A12/Divving...
My mind's not working. I'm weak, all over.
Anyway, here's the late MRT entry penned on 9 October, Thursday:
I am probably sentimental – perhaps in a practical and less obvious way, or perhaps the old man Mr Wee’s fondness of memories have rubbed onto me in the past week.
Leaving Tanjong Katong Girls’ wasn’t quite that big an emotional event compared to parting with college life. Today, I had my last lecture (Econs) and last tutorial (GP). I didn’t feel anything during those lessons that were relevant to the current reflective mood I’m in now. I’m on the train again.
(It appears that train journeys always see me consolidating the day’s events, thoughts and emotions, to add a more meaningful experience of the day to my life’s archives.)
Tomorrow’s the farewell assembly – my last official day as a student of Saint Andrew’s Junior College. From then on, the school no longer has any responsibility or even much control over me. The threat of detention due to misconduct no longer applies, the daily routine of waking up at 6 and trying to hit the assembly ground before K does is permanently broken.
While technically, I’ll still be in school for the A Levels in November, I still see the past few days as extra meaningful. Maybe this reminiscing mode is a less known component of my psyche – trying to seek significance and purpose in everything, including my past.
Sunday, October 05, 2003
The 126-Questions & 48-Questions Tests
Conscious self | Overall self |
 |  |
Not entirely accurate, but yes:
I'm extroverted, I enjoy the company of others. Relationships are important to me.
I'm more fearless than others, it is easy for me to trust people, I am physically affectionate, open-minded and I do generally like to listen as much as I like expressing myself.
No, :
I don't think I am the consummate loyal friend. I happen to think that I don't make a very good friend. I don't put in enough effort to maintain friendships that don't fall within the reach of convenience. That, I don't like about myself either.
I don't agree that I am not forthcoming about my inner struggles (besides those I am not consciously aware of) other than to Ly (whom I girlishly often expect to read the subtleties, much to his agony).
I hardly finish things that I start, or at least I don't end things as well as I start them. I'm more aware of pleasure than of pain? I never thought so, but I really am not sure about this one.
| ESFJ - "Seller". Most sociable of all types. Nurturer of harmony. Outstanding host or hostesses. 13% of the total population. |
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Another NEL Jouney - The Self-Portrayal Game
I’m on the NEL route home again (this is probably going to be the daily fare now that it has dawned upon me that this route cuts 15 minutes off my travel time).
I’m not staring at people today because I’m getting stared at myself. Some non-local-but-definitely-Asian guy was making sure I caught him looking at me for some reason ranging from male pervertness to perhaps the same sadistic satisfaction I attain by making my Autistic-Staring game victims uncomfortable. That guy left at City Hall – and I got a seat (the obvious implication of my being able to record this live).
Speaking of being stared at/observed/victimised, I have another game – the Self-Portrayal game. Often depending on my mood, dressing, time of day and location, I’ll adjust my poise and body language accordingly. I can portray the exteriors of the don’t-mess-with-me independent female, the shy conservative girl, the attitude-problem arty-farter, the deep-thinking intellectual or the bo-chap-per (apathetic ice queen). Of course I’ll only do this when only strangers, whom I don’t believe I shall ever see again, surround me. It gives me a trivial form of benign entertainment for my journeys, waiting time and other miscellaneous daily mundane routines.
I’m not staring at people today because I’m getting stared at myself. Some non-local-but-definitely-Asian guy was making sure I caught him looking at me for some reason ranging from male pervertness to perhaps the same sadistic satisfaction I attain by making my Autistic-Staring game victims uncomfortable. That guy left at City Hall – and I got a seat (the obvious implication of my being able to record this live).
Speaking of being stared at/observed/victimised, I have another game – the Self-Portrayal game. Often depending on my mood, dressing, time of day and location, I’ll adjust my poise and body language accordingly. I can portray the exteriors of the don’t-mess-with-me independent female, the shy conservative girl, the attitude-problem arty-farter, the deep-thinking intellectual or the bo-chap-per (apathetic ice queen). Of course I’ll only do this when only strangers, whom I don’t believe I shall ever see again, surround me. It gives me a trivial form of benign entertainment for my journeys, waiting time and other miscellaneous daily mundane routines.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
The NEL Way - The Autistic-Staring Game
I can't resolve why taking the NEL route home has the uncanny effect of producing in me, a melancholic feeling. All I am concerned about upon boarding the East-bound train from the Outram Interchange is getting a seat. Once God gives me a seat, I’ll spend the rest of the half-hour journey to Bedok sleeping with mouth unglamorously agape and/or head pivoting loosely on my neck (its movements subjected to the journey’s jerks as well as the entertaining conflict between gravity and the natural position of a head attached to a living body). This is if I’m lucky. More often, I’ll waste my life away on the train making futile attempts to achieve something academic. Alternatively, I’ll play the Autistic-Staring game. I’ll gaze at the eyes of some unfortunate unsuspecting victim opposite me. I don’t seem conscious of my staring because I appear to be staring “through” my victim in such a way that I don’t feel awkward when my victim catches my eye. However, while I gleefully and ‘autistically’ do so, my poor victim is cruelly made to feel uneasy. I go on doing this to a few more preys (often chosen indiscriminately, or if by a deliberate selection, because he/she is conveniently and strategically located diagonally from where I am – my favourite staring position).
For today’s trip home, I wasn’t doing so, because I decided I should pencil this down on a scrap piece of paper. It appears that blogging kept a few people from feeling uncomfortable on the train today.
For today’s trip home, I wasn’t doing so, because I decided I should pencil this down on a scrap piece of paper. It appears that blogging kept a few people from feeling uncomfortable on the train today.
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Mum
I’ve missed my mother.
Work has taken her away from weekday dinners more often than before, but work is just one of them.
I have taken her away from me too. My impatience has taken some of her – our relationship – away.
I’m afraid we’re losing that special, unconventional yet every-mother-and-child-would-love-to-have relationship. Recently, most of our conversations are so un-interactive. For me, it’s a monologue when I try talking to her. When she talks to me, suddenly she sounds more like the mother everyone else seems to have – repetitive, mundane and irrelevant. Irrelevance and repetition scares me the most; these are what will chase me away, make me shut off from all that she says.
I’m scared, close to tears because she’s all I have on earth. I have God, yes, but He’s up there. I know He’s supposed to be everywhere and I should never need anyone else when I have Him, but still… my faith isn’t that strong enough. Ly: he’s a good boyfriend, steady and I’m happy, but our relationship still isn’t sealed; it isn’t permanent like a mother-daughter relationship.
I’m praying about this. Ly said to entrust everything to God. What that means is that I acknowledge that nothing I own on earth, including the unique relationship with Mum, actually belongs to me, but to God. That way, I leave everything to him and I don’t worry about using my human strength to sustain the relationship. Of course it doesn’t mean I do nothing about it. Rather, it implies that the source of energy behind any of my actions comes not from within but from Him.
Work has taken her away from weekday dinners more often than before, but work is just one of them.
I have taken her away from me too. My impatience has taken some of her – our relationship – away.
I’m afraid we’re losing that special, unconventional yet every-mother-and-child-would-love-to-have relationship. Recently, most of our conversations are so un-interactive. For me, it’s a monologue when I try talking to her. When she talks to me, suddenly she sounds more like the mother everyone else seems to have – repetitive, mundane and irrelevant. Irrelevance and repetition scares me the most; these are what will chase me away, make me shut off from all that she says.
I’m scared, close to tears because she’s all I have on earth. I have God, yes, but He’s up there. I know He’s supposed to be everywhere and I should never need anyone else when I have Him, but still… my faith isn’t that strong enough. Ly: he’s a good boyfriend, steady and I’m happy, but our relationship still isn’t sealed; it isn’t permanent like a mother-daughter relationship.
I’m praying about this. Ly said to entrust everything to God. What that means is that I acknowledge that nothing I own on earth, including the unique relationship with Mum, actually belongs to me, but to God. That way, I leave everything to him and I don’t worry about using my human strength to sustain the relationship. Of course it doesn’t mean I do nothing about it. Rather, it implies that the source of energy behind any of my actions comes not from within but from Him.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
Waste-Of-Time Quizzes
What Would You Go to Jail For? (Many outcomes)
You're goin' down! FOR KIDNAPPING!
brought to you by Quizilla
I think it's because I put down children as my favourite thing...
I've told Ly before that I feel like stealing one of the kids from church and runaway to some kampong and bring up the kid as my own...
What Kind of Girlfriend Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
-Perfect- You're the perfect girlfriend. Which
means you're rare or that you cheated :P You're
the kind of chick that can hang out with your
boyfriend's friends and be silly. You don't
care about presents or about going to fancy
placed. Hell, just hang out. You're just happy
being around your boyfriend.
Well, that's for Ly to judge... So Ly, what do you think? Do I make it?
Friday, September 26, 2003
Who Appreciates My Happiness?
I'm exhausted now, but truly happy, for quite a simple and unlikely reason.
I had a wonderful afternoon discussing Divinity with Josh and Mengy. (I don't care if we sound like muggers, because I'm not denying that.)
We recently set up our little trio, using the basis that peer accountability would both motivate and stress the individual enough to study well. We have come up with a common study schedule. Every week, on pre-selected days of the week, we'll stay back after school to discuss essay outlines for History and exchange Divinity notes. Today has been our second day working with this plan. It has been fruitful -- and I thank God for this. The output was far too amazing for it to have been a result of our own efforts. To add a nice wafer to the banana split was to close this session with a lovely word of prayer (in English), courtesy of Mengy (a highly likely candidate for a Chinese swa-teng/Chinese kampung missionary post).
Mum picked me up and I eagerly (just as in my kindergarten day-care days) told her about what happened at school, making particular mention of this new found joy. She was either very tired, she couldn't empathise, or my voice was too high-pitched for her to digest what I was saying (Mum can't stand my voice. There was one period when I was around 12, where she would quieten me in the car because my shrill voice in the enclosed space got to her ears). A little disappointed, I was. I always like sharing my joys.
Do people understand why I get so happy over such matters and such small matters?
When I got back, I hoped that my mugging third-in-class Sec 2 sister (whose streaming exams are in a week's time) would appreciate this joy. I excitedly told her about it, like a child whose classmate just appeared in the papers (and that aptly happened to my classmate, Nicholas L., when his award-winning poem to his girlfriend earned him a spot in the papers this week), but she didn't even glance up from her sprawled default position on the floor.
Oh well.
I called Ly, but he was out cycling.
I took a shower. At least that made me feel much better... Took a good dump (a Ly term) too.
Hottish warm water (not body temperature warm, but the hot-warm Jacuzzi sort) and my favourite shampoo combination (Dove and an unknown-brand mint shampoo combined in perfect proportions), a triple facial wash (with Clean & Clear scrub, Hazeline mint, and Watson's tea-tree) and my darling Enchanteur Romantic pink body soap made me feel so much better. Defecating leaves a feel-good effect of a flatter tummy too...
Oh, and I brushed my teeth (just before dinner) too... More mint...
Perfect toilet experience...
I had a wonderful afternoon discussing Divinity with Josh and Mengy. (I don't care if we sound like muggers, because I'm not denying that.)
We recently set up our little trio, using the basis that peer accountability would both motivate and stress the individual enough to study well. We have come up with a common study schedule. Every week, on pre-selected days of the week, we'll stay back after school to discuss essay outlines for History and exchange Divinity notes. Today has been our second day working with this plan. It has been fruitful -- and I thank God for this. The output was far too amazing for it to have been a result of our own efforts. To add a nice wafer to the banana split was to close this session with a lovely word of prayer (in English), courtesy of Mengy (a highly likely candidate for a Chinese swa-teng/Chinese kampung missionary post).
Mum picked me up and I eagerly (just as in my kindergarten day-care days) told her about what happened at school, making particular mention of this new found joy. She was either very tired, she couldn't empathise, or my voice was too high-pitched for her to digest what I was saying (Mum can't stand my voice. There was one period when I was around 12, where she would quieten me in the car because my shrill voice in the enclosed space got to her ears). A little disappointed, I was. I always like sharing my joys.
Do people understand why I get so happy over such matters and such small matters?
When I got back, I hoped that my mugging third-in-class Sec 2 sister (whose streaming exams are in a week's time) would appreciate this joy. I excitedly told her about it, like a child whose classmate just appeared in the papers (and that aptly happened to my classmate, Nicholas L., when his award-winning poem to his girlfriend earned him a spot in the papers this week), but she didn't even glance up from her sprawled default position on the floor.
Oh well.
I called Ly, but he was out cycling.
I took a shower. At least that made me feel much better... Took a good dump (a Ly term) too.
Hottish warm water (not body temperature warm, but the hot-warm Jacuzzi sort) and my favourite shampoo combination (Dove and an unknown-brand mint shampoo combined in perfect proportions), a triple facial wash (with Clean & Clear scrub, Hazeline mint, and Watson's tea-tree) and my darling Enchanteur Romantic pink body soap made me feel so much better. Defecating leaves a feel-good effect of a flatter tummy too...
Oh, and I brushed my teeth (just before dinner) too... More mint...
Perfect toilet experience...
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Of Noses, Eyelids, Red Ants, Vulgarites & Other Unpleasant Things of Life
I'm feeling sick.
I've been sick since Friday. What annoys me most is the runny nose, but now, I've an added inconvenience: a sticky eyelid because of some unseen infection in my left eye.
I am at home now, after getting leave off school (the 2 periods of which consisted an Economics pep talk, a fire drill and getting my Divinity prelims papers back).
I feel so mung-zhang (grouchy in some dialect, probably Hokkien). I came home to find small red ants in the laundry basket (I hate ants) clumped on a towel. Did I mention I hate ants? It wasn't as if that wasn't awful enough to add to my leaky nose, half-shut eyes and an ambivalent fever (I have no idea whether I'm feeling hot or cold; I feel cold under my pull-over and yet perspire in this coldness). That towel was mine – and I didn't use it – someone who has no sense of what's hers used my towel – and got red ants all over it. I am so inclined to believe, to the extent I don't want to say "I'm inclined", but simply state knowingly, that that someone is my sister – the same 14-year-old sister who used to wear my underwear by mistake because she doesn't give two hoots about the ownership of personal belongings.
[I thought I promised myself never to grouse on my blog. I'm still trying to restrain the vulgarities and other uncouth nouns, verbs, adjectives, fillers and exclamations.]
Darn… I feel sick.
I’m going about the house cursing and swearing at any sight of red ants and any evidence of my sister’s irresponsibility and lack of consideration for the house.
I do swear; I’m human.
(Angel in Weiling says: Now, now, don't use the "I'm a fallen being afterall" logic as an excuse.)
I hate this. Even as I’m typing these grouses, I can barely forgive myself for saying all these. I’m justifying in my mind why my unpleasant remarks are not right. I have no freedom from myself (not that I really think complete freedom would do me any good – see, there I go again correcting myself).
Damn it.
I've been sick since Friday. What annoys me most is the runny nose, but now, I've an added inconvenience: a sticky eyelid because of some unseen infection in my left eye.
I am at home now, after getting leave off school (the 2 periods of which consisted an Economics pep talk, a fire drill and getting my Divinity prelims papers back).
I feel so mung-zhang (grouchy in some dialect, probably Hokkien). I came home to find small red ants in the laundry basket (I hate ants) clumped on a towel. Did I mention I hate ants? It wasn't as if that wasn't awful enough to add to my leaky nose, half-shut eyes and an ambivalent fever (I have no idea whether I'm feeling hot or cold; I feel cold under my pull-over and yet perspire in this coldness). That towel was mine – and I didn't use it – someone who has no sense of what's hers used my towel – and got red ants all over it. I am so inclined to believe, to the extent I don't want to say "I'm inclined", but simply state knowingly, that that someone is my sister – the same 14-year-old sister who used to wear my underwear by mistake because she doesn't give two hoots about the ownership of personal belongings.
[I thought I promised myself never to grouse on my blog. I'm still trying to restrain the vulgarities and other uncouth nouns, verbs, adjectives, fillers and exclamations.]
Darn… I feel sick.
I’m going about the house cursing and swearing at any sight of red ants and any evidence of my sister’s irresponsibility and lack of consideration for the house.
I do swear; I’m human.
(Angel in Weiling says: Now, now, don't use the "I'm a fallen being afterall" logic as an excuse.)
I hate this. Even as I’m typing these grouses, I can barely forgive myself for saying all these. I’m justifying in my mind why my unpleasant remarks are not right. I have no freedom from myself (not that I really think complete freedom would do me any good – see, there I go again correcting myself).
Damn it.
Monday, September 15, 2003
Music & I
I don't usually go around with two things plugged in my ears. However, just a few days ago, my internet upgrade to a 512kbps Unlimited Broadband plan gained me a CD-MP3 player. As usual, I'm thrilled by new things (usually, new stationary such as highlighters and pens have the great ability to enthral me). I used the portable music machine on the way home just now. I played the Gosford Park Soundtrack Alexander burnt for me somewhere last year. I love the piano-and-vocal pieces.
It's really queer (good queer) how suddenly everything around me changed once I played the simple music loud with the plugs stuck in my ears. The songs on the Gosford Park OST are of a gentle, soothing and elegant lounge-like nature. Harshly ugly people and old women covered with loud make-up suddenly looked human. I don't know why 'human', but it's a funny feeling I had. With the manipulative music playing, and conquering seemingly all, though in reality just one, senses, everything looked gentler and more peaceful. The rough edges were smoothened out. The scene was so movie-ish (cinematic is the word I believe) -- the kind with background music playing as the world functions.
At the bus stop, waiting, attention-grabbing peoplets (young people) and cigarette smoke didn't bother me for the first time.
At the bus-stop, I felt light. I felt like doing a Waltz and a Tango (although I don't quite know how to) with the strong beats of the other songs Alexander adulterated the soundtrack with. It was a lovely feeling. I felt elated with a glow -- the distinctive-overstretched-skin-brought-about-by-pregnancy-glow glow.
It's really queer (good queer) how suddenly everything around me changed once I played the simple music loud with the plugs stuck in my ears. The songs on the Gosford Park OST are of a gentle, soothing and elegant lounge-like nature. Harshly ugly people and old women covered with loud make-up suddenly looked human. I don't know why 'human', but it's a funny feeling I had. With the manipulative music playing, and conquering seemingly all, though in reality just one, senses, everything looked gentler and more peaceful. The rough edges were smoothened out. The scene was so movie-ish (cinematic is the word I believe) -- the kind with background music playing as the world functions.
At the bus stop, waiting, attention-grabbing peoplets (young people) and cigarette smoke didn't bother me for the first time.
At the bus-stop, I felt light. I felt like doing a Waltz and a Tango (although I don't quite know how to) with the strong beats of the other songs Alexander adulterated the soundtrack with. It was a lovely feeling. I felt elated with a glow -- the distinctive-overstretched-skin-brought-about-by-pregnancy-glow glow.
Monday, September 01, 2003
Food Poisioning @ The Wedding Banquet
I received first class treatment in the Esplanade on Friday night. In the midst of watching ‘The Wedding Banquet’, I started suffering form stomach contractions, or something of the same pain-inducing kind. The nausea that accompanied it was a distinctive characteristic of food-poisoning (prawn-filled-chee-cheong-fan-from-the-Tiong-Bahru-foodcourt-poisoning).
My prayers kept me as far as the end of the show. While waiting for Mum to find that green car of hers in the huge car-park, I had a bad bout of intestinal contortions that sent me on the floor. Ly panicked in the most candid manner; even Cui (my sister) was of a lower anxiety level than him. Somehow, the efficient security and car-park marshals found me on the floor in the middle of the car-park and radioed (walkie-talkied) for help.
After Ly and a smiling security guard lifted me by my probably-sweaty-by-then armpits – most embarrassingly – to help me walk to the air-con interior, a wheelchair was brought down and I was comfortably placed on it. It was my first time on a chair with 2 wheels. I must admit the female usher did a better job of pushing me compared to the shaky Ly. The experience was quite exhilarating despite the pain and utmost fear of farting amidst the hoohaa, particularly when I was being lifted up. Throughout the entire affair, I instinctively knew I’d feel better once I let out a resounding flatulence.
Thankfully, the awkwardness diminished slightly when they Esplanade staff left the 4 of us alone in the First Aid room – with bathroom attached – after kindly passing us a glass of warm water (which I guiltily forgot to drink). I could finally fart in peace and without reservations – but that wasn’t quite the case with Ly in the enclosed room too. I couldn't be bothered anymore anyhow. I sat happily on the cool, clean toilet bowl (after struggling with the butterfly pants – a huge piece of cloth that requires tying at the front and back to ensure it stays on the hips – that Ly spontaneously bought me a couple of weeks back) and I pushed hard. And I farted: 3 rudely loud but contenting ones. I'm quite certain the sound of the semi-solid goo that was excreted with pure joy travelled through the unlocked toilet door into the room..
I guess that makes Ly family now, since he has now seen me in my full humanity. (Virgin guys think their girlfriends are saints/angels/goddesses until they marry the very same saint/angel/goddess.)
My prayers kept me as far as the end of the show. While waiting for Mum to find that green car of hers in the huge car-park, I had a bad bout of intestinal contortions that sent me on the floor. Ly panicked in the most candid manner; even Cui (my sister) was of a lower anxiety level than him. Somehow, the efficient security and car-park marshals found me on the floor in the middle of the car-park and radioed (walkie-talkied) for help.
After Ly and a smiling security guard lifted me by my probably-sweaty-by-then armpits – most embarrassingly – to help me walk to the air-con interior, a wheelchair was brought down and I was comfortably placed on it. It was my first time on a chair with 2 wheels. I must admit the female usher did a better job of pushing me compared to the shaky Ly. The experience was quite exhilarating despite the pain and utmost fear of farting amidst the hoohaa, particularly when I was being lifted up. Throughout the entire affair, I instinctively knew I’d feel better once I let out a resounding flatulence.
Thankfully, the awkwardness diminished slightly when they Esplanade staff left the 4 of us alone in the First Aid room – with bathroom attached – after kindly passing us a glass of warm water (which I guiltily forgot to drink). I could finally fart in peace and without reservations – but that wasn’t quite the case with Ly in the enclosed room too. I couldn't be bothered anymore anyhow. I sat happily on the cool, clean toilet bowl (after struggling with the butterfly pants – a huge piece of cloth that requires tying at the front and back to ensure it stays on the hips – that Ly spontaneously bought me a couple of weeks back) and I pushed hard. And I farted: 3 rudely loud but contenting ones. I'm quite certain the sound of the semi-solid goo that was excreted with pure joy travelled through the unlocked toilet door into the room..
I guess that makes Ly family now, since he has now seen me in my full humanity. (Virgin guys think their girlfriends are saints/angels/goddesses until they marry the very same saint/angel/goddess.)
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Bent
I have so much I want to say about the latest topic in Singapore -- the acceptance of homosexuals in sensitive government jobs.
My church and the leaders are so narrow-minded. I feel that they do not have much credibility in most of what they preach against homosexuality for the mere lack of exposure. Of course, I do not discount what they say about homosexuality as a sin with reference to the Bible. However, what they know about this group of people is only what is read or heard about them. They have hardly are any real personal encounters that are worthy of mention.
In the expression of my view, I must make some things very clear. Firstly, I am not discussing the nature-versus-nurture origin of homosexuality. My points do not rely on this the truth of either one. (Though personally, I have qualms about saying with full certainty that nature has no part to play in the development of homosexual tendencies.) Secondly, I do believe and take homosexuality to be a sin. Thirdly, I am in no way condoning homosexuality though what I'm about to write.
I don't understand (actually I do, I detest) the way gays are treated. I've made mention of this in my Sunday class. Both adulterers and homosexuals have committed sex-related sins. (For the sake of simplicity and to bring out my point, I have assumed here that homosexuality is not the result of nature gone wrong but is a choice made by the individual.) Yet, why is it that adulterers do not get as condemned as gays are now? Is there a double standard? What makes one sin worse than the other?
Perhaps it can be argued that adulterers in the past were as scorned upon as gays now, but they have been in obvious and growing existence for so long now that society has evolved into one that is now more tolerant of adultery, where our expectations and ideals have been lowered. In other words, adultery has become a norm, while on the other hand, homosexuality is still very much a "new" lifestyle. Will Time prove that she aids the establishment of norms and hence society's responses to something "unethical"? I suppose Singapore is still very much in the early development stages of having gays coexisting naturally with the rest of society.
My church and the leaders are so narrow-minded. I feel that they do not have much credibility in most of what they preach against homosexuality for the mere lack of exposure. Of course, I do not discount what they say about homosexuality as a sin with reference to the Bible. However, what they know about this group of people is only what is read or heard about them. They have hardly are any real personal encounters that are worthy of mention.
In the expression of my view, I must make some things very clear. Firstly, I am not discussing the nature-versus-nurture origin of homosexuality. My points do not rely on this the truth of either one. (Though personally, I have qualms about saying with full certainty that nature has no part to play in the development of homosexual tendencies.) Secondly, I do believe and take homosexuality to be a sin. Thirdly, I am in no way condoning homosexuality though what I'm about to write.
I don't understand (actually I do, I detest) the way gays are treated. I've made mention of this in my Sunday class. Both adulterers and homosexuals have committed sex-related sins. (For the sake of simplicity and to bring out my point, I have assumed here that homosexuality is not the result of nature gone wrong but is a choice made by the individual.) Yet, why is it that adulterers do not get as condemned as gays are now? Is there a double standard? What makes one sin worse than the other?
Perhaps it can be argued that adulterers in the past were as scorned upon as gays now, but they have been in obvious and growing existence for so long now that society has evolved into one that is now more tolerant of adultery, where our expectations and ideals have been lowered. In other words, adultery has become a norm, while on the other hand, homosexuality is still very much a "new" lifestyle. Will Time prove that she aids the establishment of norms and hence society's responses to something "unethical"? I suppose Singapore is still very much in the early development stages of having gays coexisting naturally with the rest of society.
Friday, August 01, 2003
God does not exist, He told me so Himself.
I have not had much thoughts of late -- not of the "I-need-to-put-this-down-in-virtual-history" nature.
School has been more than a handful. I've never actually prayed about my studies before until this year. Ok, mundane details of everyday life.
You want to read something juicy right? Sorry, not much for you this time round.
K made us all of us write eulogies for ourselves -- what we think would be said about us should we die next week -- and eulogies for another classmate. Then she put the two together and returned them to each of us.
Arghh... I don't feel like writing anymore. This is so mundane. I just feel obliged to write, I haven't touched this b1og for some time. I feel accountable to my b1og readers, who are rare and few between (or something along that phrase).
School has been more than a handful. I've never actually prayed about my studies before until this year. Ok, mundane details of everyday life.
You want to read something juicy right? Sorry, not much for you this time round.
K made us all of us write eulogies for ourselves -- what we think would be said about us should we die next week -- and eulogies for another classmate. Then she put the two together and returned them to each of us.
Arghh... I don't feel like writing anymore. This is so mundane. I just feel obliged to write, I haven't touched this b1og for some time. I feel accountable to my b1og readers, who are rare and few between (or something along that phrase).
Friday, July 11, 2003
Thy Loving Kindness
I've been praying. God has been very kind and patient with me.
The little requests I make, He answers me within a short span of time, often instantly. Simple immediate requests can range from removing a particular distraction from my mind (e.g. the death of Laleh and Laden) in order to concentrate on my quiet time to helping me live my day with Him in mind.
The little requests I make, He answers me within a short span of time, often instantly. Simple immediate requests can range from removing a particular distraction from my mind (e.g. the death of Laleh and Laden) in order to concentrate on my quiet time to helping me live my day with Him in mind.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Justifications of Growing Up
I’m stressed. The teenage angst.
Having just finished a round of exams last week, I have got wind that the next round of exams – the Prelims – is due next month (August).
I’m frightened. I am no academician. I may have some good brains, but not in the area pertaining to studies.
I’m growing up to fast. I want to skip stages and quickly move into the get-married-and-start-a-family stage; I don’t want to remain in Junior College. It’s not because I can’t study that I want to get married. It’s just some weird instincts kicking in. I can’t wait to have my own children, and be a mother. My ambition is to be a mother. Teaching is secondary and just a supplementary component of life.
I find myself so often justifying my level of maturity – initially, to others, but more recently, to myself. I don’t know where I stand on that timeline anymore. Why are my maternal instincts kicking in before my academic survival intuitions?
In the past month, I’ve become increasingly paranoid. I use the term paranoid, because I agree that this worry is uncalled for. I’m afraid that Ly will get sick of me, or even indifferent towards me. I accept the fact that we have moved from the initial wooing stage to a later, more mature and less "exciting" phase of the relationship. Yet, I am unable to embrace that in my life. As Ly said in frustration, I am indeed pining for the past – so much so that I can’t move forward, we can’t move forward. I want that attention I got in the past, and the security it gives me. I want to be certain and confident of the future (I have a compelling desire to be in control of my life). This is not only an unfruitful attitude, it is also detrimental now. The way Ly and I see it, it’s upsetting me, hence it's not of any good use. I long for hugs and physical touches that suggest that I am still loved. Ly would say of course I am, silly me. I think I know that, but I just want tangible reassurances.
I asked God why I am the way I am. Why can’t I be like all, or most, of the teenagers and take each day as it comes? This weird maturity of mine – it is both blessing and curse. I consoled and tried to convince myself that there is good in what I am. Perhaps God will use this gift of mine to help others. I don’t know. I understand and accept what others are saying about the way my unhealthy manner of thinking and I believe them totally. But this is the first time, despite this personal agreement, I don’t seem to be able to apply that in my life. I’m still in a quagmire.
Some amount of stress hit me yesterday, a timely mix of my worries over the A Levels and over Ly and my future. I just cried. I didn’t know after a while what I was crying about, but it sure felt good. I let the tears come down, and let my nose feel funny. I allowed my lips to quiver in weakness. I cried twice. Once on my own in my room, and the other when I was walking Ly out to the main entrance Clubhouse. In the darkness and strolling by the pool, I held Ly's hand and cried as I walked him out. He’ll be away for about 4 days, having a live-in orientation at NIE from today (Wednesday) to Saturday. I wished he had given me a nice warm hug before he left. He didn’t, just a squeeze. He’s so apathetic now -- so confident -- I feel.
The last few weeks, I’ve seen how his RPG computer game and Anime took priority over me. It made me scared, fearful of what I’ll mean to him in a while more.
Having just finished a round of exams last week, I have got wind that the next round of exams – the Prelims – is due next month (August).
I’m frightened. I am no academician. I may have some good brains, but not in the area pertaining to studies.
I’m growing up to fast. I want to skip stages and quickly move into the get-married-and-start-a-family stage; I don’t want to remain in Junior College. It’s not because I can’t study that I want to get married. It’s just some weird instincts kicking in. I can’t wait to have my own children, and be a mother. My ambition is to be a mother. Teaching is secondary and just a supplementary component of life.
I find myself so often justifying my level of maturity – initially, to others, but more recently, to myself. I don’t know where I stand on that timeline anymore. Why are my maternal instincts kicking in before my academic survival intuitions?
In the past month, I’ve become increasingly paranoid. I use the term paranoid, because I agree that this worry is uncalled for. I’m afraid that Ly will get sick of me, or even indifferent towards me. I accept the fact that we have moved from the initial wooing stage to a later, more mature and less "exciting" phase of the relationship. Yet, I am unable to embrace that in my life. As Ly said in frustration, I am indeed pining for the past – so much so that I can’t move forward, we can’t move forward. I want that attention I got in the past, and the security it gives me. I want to be certain and confident of the future (I have a compelling desire to be in control of my life). This is not only an unfruitful attitude, it is also detrimental now. The way Ly and I see it, it’s upsetting me, hence it's not of any good use. I long for hugs and physical touches that suggest that I am still loved. Ly would say of course I am, silly me. I think I know that, but I just want tangible reassurances.
I asked God why I am the way I am. Why can’t I be like all, or most, of the teenagers and take each day as it comes? This weird maturity of mine – it is both blessing and curse. I consoled and tried to convince myself that there is good in what I am. Perhaps God will use this gift of mine to help others. I don’t know. I understand and accept what others are saying about the way my unhealthy manner of thinking and I believe them totally. But this is the first time, despite this personal agreement, I don’t seem to be able to apply that in my life. I’m still in a quagmire.
Some amount of stress hit me yesterday, a timely mix of my worries over the A Levels and over Ly and my future. I just cried. I didn’t know after a while what I was crying about, but it sure felt good. I let the tears come down, and let my nose feel funny. I allowed my lips to quiver in weakness. I cried twice. Once on my own in my room, and the other when I was walking Ly out to the main entrance Clubhouse. In the darkness and strolling by the pool, I held Ly's hand and cried as I walked him out. He’ll be away for about 4 days, having a live-in orientation at NIE from today (Wednesday) to Saturday. I wished he had given me a nice warm hug before he left. He didn’t, just a squeeze. He’s so apathetic now -- so confident -- I feel.
The last few weeks, I’ve seen how his RPG computer game and Anime took priority over me. It made me scared, fearful of what I’ll mean to him in a while more.
Thursday, June 05, 2003
I’m feeling a little overwhelmed with emotions now. There was a emotional and heated discussion on the fact that Ms Chong has been posted to Ministry in the last term before our ‘A’ Levels, and a petition regarding this matter put up by Alex.
I don’t feel as much for the situation which everyone is so involved in now as I do for the general broader scope of things. Amidst the two-faced Ram, K the arbitrator, do-something-about-it Alex, doubts of the masses on the quality of the new teacher, accusing the ministry for such making such an unfair move etc., I feel very sad. Not quite at the situation, but at how people are taking to it.
With respect to Alex and the petition, I have some degree of admiration for that guy. I had previously passed him off as a talk-big-full-of-unattainable-ideals-unrealistic-do-nothing guy, but this time, he has proven himself.
What I think is grossly lacking in the whole matter is the basic human capability to understand. The capability is there, I believe, but not many are actually bothering to use it. The petition and all the non-written, verbal grievances comes across to me as an expression of self-interest. I don’t feel as if there is much thought, if any, given to the parties directly involved, other than us. Take for example, the Ms Chong’s personal good in the long run, the ministry’s needs, the new teacher who is to come in.
Yet, in contrast to this huge element of self-interest, there also is the intention to do, or at least seek good. Unfortunately, well intentions don’t come out and/or are not interpreted with the same good it originally vied for. It’s such a pity – not as a cliché but really a pity.
I felt like crying just now. I did tear a little, to be honest. I simply felt so helpless in and sorry for this state of human politics.
I don’t feel as much for the situation which everyone is so involved in now as I do for the general broader scope of things. Amidst the two-faced Ram, K the arbitrator, do-something-about-it Alex, doubts of the masses on the quality of the new teacher, accusing the ministry for such making such an unfair move etc., I feel very sad. Not quite at the situation, but at how people are taking to it.
With respect to Alex and the petition, I have some degree of admiration for that guy. I had previously passed him off as a talk-big-full-of-unattainable-ideals-unrealistic-do-nothing guy, but this time, he has proven himself.
What I think is grossly lacking in the whole matter is the basic human capability to understand. The capability is there, I believe, but not many are actually bothering to use it. The petition and all the non-written, verbal grievances comes across to me as an expression of self-interest. I don’t feel as if there is much thought, if any, given to the parties directly involved, other than us. Take for example, the Ms Chong’s personal good in the long run, the ministry’s needs, the new teacher who is to come in.
Yet, in contrast to this huge element of self-interest, there also is the intention to do, or at least seek good. Unfortunately, well intentions don’t come out and/or are not interpreted with the same good it originally vied for. It’s such a pity – not as a cliché but really a pity.
I felt like crying just now. I did tear a little, to be honest. I simply felt so helpless in and sorry for this state of human politics.
Monday, June 02, 2003
I've hurt someone yet again. I can't help it. Actually, I'm not sure whether I can. But I am glad for this time, I think I've nipped it in the bud before the situation got worse (i.e. that that person could get more hurt if I had let it dragged on). I attacked the problem in its infancy. It'd hurt a little, but not as much as it would had I let it continue to grow.
God is good. I prayed for my wandering heart and He gave me peace in a matter of days. Perhaps I need to pray for the above matter too.
I want to be totally honest, but, as I told YC, I fear rejection.
I like talking to him. He is frank and he sees more of the real me compared to most of the class at least. When I make a seemingly casual statement (as how most people and sometimes, even myself, would take it), he does not merely laugh over it and pass it off. Instead, he questions the source of such a statement. He asks the "why" and "how" questions. I really like that. It makes me feel that I'm being treated seriously.
The me whom everyone saw last year is still the same me this year. Last year, the me they saw was the ditsy, idiotic, brainless giggling irritant. This year, it's different. But I have not changed -- not much at least. It's only my mask which I have been forced to changed.
God is good. I prayed for my wandering heart and He gave me peace in a matter of days. Perhaps I need to pray for the above matter too.
I want to be totally honest, but, as I told YC, I fear rejection.
I like talking to him. He is frank and he sees more of the real me compared to most of the class at least. When I make a seemingly casual statement (as how most people and sometimes, even myself, would take it), he does not merely laugh over it and pass it off. Instead, he questions the source of such a statement. He asks the "why" and "how" questions. I really like that. It makes me feel that I'm being treated seriously.
The me whom everyone saw last year is still the same me this year. Last year, the me they saw was the ditsy, idiotic, brainless giggling irritant. This year, it's different. But I have not changed -- not much at least. It's only my mask which I have been forced to changed.
Monday, May 26, 2003
Airport! Padang! South China Plain!
I spent an uneventful evening yesterday looking for an "honest" bra. My chest is as 2 dimensional as the South China Plain. Despite that, I am still expected to wear a strangling and restrictive, sweat-retaining, presumably-supportive inner clothing accessory commonly known as the rude three letter word -- the bra.
My entire evening was as fruitless as traumatised my chest was, with all the trying-ons of ridiculously conical bras which the measly amount of flesh I have been endowed with could not fill. I hate wearing falsees, yet I am not brave enough to go strutting in public with a mere piece of cloth with no shape to cover the vulgar looking dots.
I went up to countless bra-selling assistants and made my case clear, Do you have anything for me? I'm very Bi (Hokkien for flat), like Primary 4 girl, but I don't want the training bras, must be able to wear T-shirt wan.
[Terminology for non-bra-wearing humans: A training bra is made of cloth only; it has no cup shape. As its name suggests, it is meant to train pubescent girls, at an average age of 7 years my junior, who are beginning to grow there, to get accustomed to the cruel practice of wearing a proper bra.]
My entire evening was as fruitless as traumatised my chest was, with all the trying-ons of ridiculously conical bras which the measly amount of flesh I have been endowed with could not fill. I hate wearing falsees, yet I am not brave enough to go strutting in public with a mere piece of cloth with no shape to cover the vulgar looking dots.
I went up to countless bra-selling assistants and made my case clear, Do you have anything for me? I'm very Bi (Hokkien for flat), like Primary 4 girl, but I don't want the training bras, must be able to wear T-shirt wan.
[Terminology for non-bra-wearing humans: A training bra is made of cloth only; it has no cup shape. As its name suggests, it is meant to train pubescent girls, at an average age of 7 years my junior, who are beginning to grow there, to get accustomed to the cruel practice of wearing a proper bra.]
Thursday, May 08, 2003
The Father
Mum was quite upset today. Not the over-traumatised kind of upset, it was a frustrated though resigned gentle burst, than steady flow of emotions. We might go to Australia to run away from Father: Mum, Cui and me. Mum has done some calculations: likelihood of gaining PR status there, what amount results from liquidating everything in Singapore, education in Australia etc. She seems quite serious about it.
Initially, I thought that that would be an exciting and favourable alternative to staying in Singapore, where we are stuck to the man who causes so much unhappiness and tension at home. Furthermore, overseas living would be an different and interesting experience, along with having a foreign education. Different lifestyle -- we might even end up living in a house! Who knows?
But then, the next thing, the counter-argument, which came to my mind was Ly. How could I leave him behind? Sure, we can talk over the phone, e-mails, video-conferencing through webcams.. but I can't feel him. That was frightening. Not that either one of us is some lusty creature, but touch is ever so important in any relationship. Even if I could overcome that, will I trust him to keep me and only me in his heart while I'm away, and will he trust me? Will I be able to maintain a long-distance relationship without "straying", will he? He's bonded to the MOE for another 7 years, his bond ends in 2010. That's when I'm 25. I don't suppose I can get him to come to Australia then, in the event that I want to settle down there.
Am I jumping the gun? Perhaps Mum said that all in a moment of frustration and rashness. Have I accurately perceived the severity of the matter?
The more immediate worry now should be Mum. All that she said about Australia could simply be a way to express how she's feeling now.
Pa is losing in all aspects of the battle: ideological, political and economic. There is only one area which he reigns in now -- military force. That's one thing the rest of us have no control over.
He is fast losing me. I am losing hope of ever changing him, or seeing any future in our father-daughter relationship. Cuiwen doesn't look like she's on his side either.
He borrows money from Mum and promises to return her, but doesn't. When confronted now, he accuses Mum of causing his downfall and demands compensation instead. Mum can't say no. The despicable scheming man, the absurdity of it all. How sad.
How can he not expect me to know that he pays for practically nothing in the house when he blatantly passes me $2 and says, "Na, Wei, wo qing ni chi MacDonalds, " after winning a few hundred in his 4D gambling obsession?
I don't know what God wants me to do now. Would he want me to leave my father, or sin more in trying to salvage the situation? I really don't know. This isn't a black-and-white matter.
Initially, I thought that that would be an exciting and favourable alternative to staying in Singapore, where we are stuck to the man who causes so much unhappiness and tension at home. Furthermore, overseas living would be an different and interesting experience, along with having a foreign education. Different lifestyle -- we might even end up living in a house! Who knows?
But then, the next thing, the counter-argument, which came to my mind was Ly. How could I leave him behind? Sure, we can talk over the phone, e-mails, video-conferencing through webcams.. but I can't feel him. That was frightening. Not that either one of us is some lusty creature, but touch is ever so important in any relationship. Even if I could overcome that, will I trust him to keep me and only me in his heart while I'm away, and will he trust me? Will I be able to maintain a long-distance relationship without "straying", will he? He's bonded to the MOE for another 7 years, his bond ends in 2010. That's when I'm 25. I don't suppose I can get him to come to Australia then, in the event that I want to settle down there.
Am I jumping the gun? Perhaps Mum said that all in a moment of frustration and rashness. Have I accurately perceived the severity of the matter?
The more immediate worry now should be Mum. All that she said about Australia could simply be a way to express how she's feeling now.
Pa is losing in all aspects of the battle: ideological, political and economic. There is only one area which he reigns in now -- military force. That's one thing the rest of us have no control over.
He is fast losing me. I am losing hope of ever changing him, or seeing any future in our father-daughter relationship. Cuiwen doesn't look like she's on his side either.
He borrows money from Mum and promises to return her, but doesn't. When confronted now, he accuses Mum of causing his downfall and demands compensation instead. Mum can't say no. The despicable scheming man, the absurdity of it all. How sad.
How can he not expect me to know that he pays for practically nothing in the house when he blatantly passes me $2 and says, "Na, Wei, wo qing ni chi MacDonalds, " after winning a few hundred in his 4D gambling obsession?
I don't know what God wants me to do now. Would he want me to leave my father, or sin more in trying to salvage the situation? I really don't know. This isn't a black-and-white matter.
Thursday, May 01, 2003
Monday, April 28, 2003
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
I recently found out that I had the power to hurt people. I never realised that I yielded such power.
I find it quite shocking, in some contorted sense, that I have friends -- friends who live and breathe, who love and care.
There was a huge point in my life when I saw the possibility of me being the only thing living on earth -- really living a life. The other people on earth were just pawns and actors used by a greater being to affect my life. Is that egotistical or what? (By saying what, I do mean that as a sincere question; it isn't a mere rhetoric exclamation.)
Sometimes, when I'm talking to Alexander or Janna, it suddenly seems all so out-of-place, as if I have been teleported to another timezone, another life. I think it's because I see myself from out of my body. No, not literally, that would be freaky. It's more of a "let's get a big picture" thing. It may be slightly philosophical, but philosophy stinks, so I shan't use that word too freely. (What I feel is real, philosophy, on the other hand, mostly takes elements out of emotional situations. There hardly is any real application to practical life, not to me at least.)
I'm not quite sure what to think anymore. I'm glad I've chosen not to think that much. I'll probably end up a psychosomatic impractical fool. I used to think excessively and quite needlessly in my early teen years. I recently turned 18. I think I've grown up quite some bit. Thinking a lot doesn't equate maturity, I believe. Maturity is more marked by the ability to control my mind.
No one quite needs to read this. I just need a conduit to express myself. Typing gives me a lovely therapeutic sensation.
I find it quite shocking, in some contorted sense, that I have friends -- friends who live and breathe, who love and care.
There was a huge point in my life when I saw the possibility of me being the only thing living on earth -- really living a life. The other people on earth were just pawns and actors used by a greater being to affect my life. Is that egotistical or what? (By saying what, I do mean that as a sincere question; it isn't a mere rhetoric exclamation.)
Sometimes, when I'm talking to Alexander or Janna, it suddenly seems all so out-of-place, as if I have been teleported to another timezone, another life. I think it's because I see myself from out of my body. No, not literally, that would be freaky. It's more of a "let's get a big picture" thing. It may be slightly philosophical, but philosophy stinks, so I shan't use that word too freely. (What I feel is real, philosophy, on the other hand, mostly takes elements out of emotional situations. There hardly is any real application to practical life, not to me at least.)
I'm not quite sure what to think anymore. I'm glad I've chosen not to think that much. I'll probably end up a psychosomatic impractical fool. I used to think excessively and quite needlessly in my early teen years. I recently turned 18. I think I've grown up quite some bit. Thinking a lot doesn't equate maturity, I believe. Maturity is more marked by the ability to control my mind.
No one quite needs to read this. I just need a conduit to express myself. Typing gives me a lovely therapeutic sensation.
Friday, April 11, 2003
What is the purpose of General Paper examinations? Is it meant to test candidate's ability to discuss and express his thoughts on a particular issue or is it intended to penalise those who fall prey to the questions' tricky phrasing?
GP lessons in school seem to focus more on handling the tricky words rather than the content and ways in which we can express our ideas. It appears to me that GP questions are deliberately crafted to be abstruse and where the bulk of marks lie in the interpretation of the question.
It's so ironic how people and the world lose focus of the original task after doing it for a long period.
Today is the day when I wanted to simply quit school and get married. I use the past tense because I don't think about it anymore. It sounds like the easy way out of studying, but apparently, there aren't enough decently rich (those earning enough to support a four member family) guys who are willing to marry a JC dropout. So that calls for Plan B...
There is no Plan B.
Looks like I just have to struggle through JC life just like all the rest of us stuck in this system (those who enjoy mugging probably don't feel as stuck as I do). God help me. I mean that.
GP lessons in school seem to focus more on handling the tricky words rather than the content and ways in which we can express our ideas. It appears to me that GP questions are deliberately crafted to be abstruse and where the bulk of marks lie in the interpretation of the question.
It's so ironic how people and the world lose focus of the original task after doing it for a long period.
Today is the day when I wanted to simply quit school and get married. I use the past tense because I don't think about it anymore. It sounds like the easy way out of studying, but apparently, there aren't enough decently rich (those earning enough to support a four member family) guys who are willing to marry a JC dropout. So that calls for Plan B...
There is no Plan B.
Looks like I just have to struggle through JC life just like all the rest of us stuck in this system (those who enjoy mugging probably don't feel as stuck as I do). God help me. I mean that.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
Fake Love
Is it possible to pretend to love someone? Something like carrying out a pseudo-real-relationship without the element of love? Can the most professional expert on psychology carry out such a stunt? In addition to reading and watching literaturish love stories, perhaps a bit of personal experience can aid in that act. I don't know. Is it possible?
Will that expertise see you through marriage? Or is love really something more complicated than knowing how to react to the other person to make him think you love him?
Will that expertise see you through marriage? Or is love really something more complicated than knowing how to react to the other person to make him think you love him?
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