Down in the dumps~

That's fairly self-explanatory, if I do say so myself. These days it's hard to pinpoint exactly what I am. I've been studying so much about the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle and I daresay my entire life is revolving around that crux of sheer... ambiguity. I have no idea where my moods are going.

One moment I can be bouncing off the walls- usually the combined effect of caffeine and panadol, and the next, simply NOT crying is the hardest thing imaginable. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me or if I'm simply the problem, but it's not a very nice feeling.

I wouldn't mind so much if it didn't break my concentration where schoolwork is concerned, but my focus is more than shattered. It's utterly annihilated, decimated, demolished, whatever permutation of destroyed you can conceive of.

And yes, this post makes me sound like some goth-riddled emo, but the difference is that I don't care.

But I do.

+.+!!!!!!

Too tired to think of a title

What a life, it's only 11 in the morning and I want to go nowhere else but to bed. Technically, I'm already IN bed (under the covers as that) but you get my meaning nonetheless, right?

I'm studying and semester hasn't even gotten off the ground; call me paranoid but I'm in a right state now, that I am, since receiving the fateful A4 brown envelope last night.

So much to be done, so little time.......

A clearer state of mind

NOW that the shock's worn off somewhat, I feel a little bit more lucid. Or at least, a wee bit more coherent than the babbling mess I was yesterday. I know, you're thinking, whoa, never before has someone made a bigger fuss of getting into the university, but perhaps if you were to walk with me through the entire run-up before that, you'd understand the reason for my shellshocked reaction.

Okay, considering that there are only four universities (as of now anyway) in Singapore, it's only fitting that prospective undergraduates would try their hand at the four heavenly kings. And subsequently be offered placement in one of them too; that's just how it works. Well, considering that my FYP was a collaboration with NTU and that I'd already gone for the interviews and the whole nine yards, it was pretty much a done deal that the Boonlay campus would be where I'd take up residence for the next three years.

I was pretty cool, even excited, with that. I've got seniors in there and I know the quickest way to get to the toilets (don't ask), and which vending machine sells what and on the whole, I was content with my lot in life.

And yesterday at 6am, in a caffeine-induced stupor, I switched on my computer and just for the heck of it, logged onto the joint acceptance portal with my NUS-issued pin.

CAN YOU IMAGINE THE SHOCK I HAD?!

I didn't scream, thank you very much. Dignity still remained in my head even though it was touch-and-go there for a good moment. I never imagined I'd get into NUS. Like I said, I logged on for the heck of it and sometimes I think I applied for the same reason. Don't get me wrong. It's a wonderful school and where brand names are concerned, the prestige is great. But considering that I...

1. Am from a polytechnic that is known for being the worst where reputations are concerned- because the principal is not a PAL of any kind. I can count on my fingers the number of NUS science students our institution (asylum) has churned out since opening its Horse-head flanked doors.

2. Got an E for my A levels in Chemistry. Yes. You read that right and E doesn't stand for excellency or anything Extraordinaryyyyyyyy.

3. Urm... got an A2 for that in O levels? (not that that should be counted... or wait, I think it is but never mind)

4. Am not a particularly outstanding student. Okay. I know this is a major bone of contention that teachers would pick at. Outstanding, not notorious, that is. A good deal of teachers would beg to differ about how I'm indeed pretty good but I know where I stand nonetheless. As compared to certain people I've seen (the initial C.H. come to mind but I don't wanna dwell on that for now), the harsh inner critic is all but willing to let up.

5. Chemistry's not an easy course to get into. Hell, NUS science in itself is a brutally competitive faculty and everyone knows that. But here I am all the same.

Needless to say, I accepted, albeit with trembling fingers. I'm still very much in shock because the entire focus of my world has shifted a full hundred and eighty degrees. I don't know where I'm going, what I should do, who I'll meet, what the food's like, what do the toilets smell of (!!), but I DO know something.

I'm grateful. Incredibly grateful.

For this opportunity, for this gift. You can argue that I worked for it and it was my entitlement but I know by now that nothing comes free and easy in this world. I'm here and I intend to milk it for all its worth; go in there and study extra hard and make sure I give it back at some point. I'm still reeling.

I won't lie. I'm afraid- terrified, to be precise. Of failing, of not being up to scratch, of even tripping and falling over my own feet in the lecture hall (if that's what they're called). Truth be told, I don't think the terror will subside anything soon, at least not until things get into a groove when the academic year kicks off with a bang. Till then, I'll just have to trust that whatever guy up there (as Scottz Lip would say) has given me this gift will see me through and give me the strength to overcome whatever lands in my way.

Right. I know I'm babbling again and right now I'm so frazzled I can't think straight. Offers and acceptance letters, medical examinations, purchasing insurance coverage... It's overwhelming to say the least. I need some space to - back away by a step and admire the vastness of the blue sky, as the Chinese proverb goes.

Oh and as a side note, a totally random one at that, Munkustrap and Mistoffelees are hot.

Yeah that's all.

I JUST GOT INTO NUS CHEMISTRY.

EXCUSE ME WHILE I FAINT.

IT NEEDS TIME TO SINK IN.

WHERE DID I PUT MY CARDIAC DEFRIBILLATOR?

THAT'S ALL FOR NOW...

*SINKS BACK INTO THE GRAVE*

The luckiest girl

I took it for granted then. That easy security, that unconditional affection- I've only over the course of this very year realized how lucky I was then even though I didn't acknowledge my good fortune at that point.

I'll not disclaim it; I was foolish enough to neglect what was before my own two eyes. Like the rabbits he once told me about that can't see what's directly ahead. I didn't know good fortune until it took flight and while I'll forever be haunted by the fact that it did, for that fleeting second, oh god, I'm grateful.

Some things are beautiful by virtue of their transience, like certain northern regions of a female after giving birth. I wish this hadn't been so fleeting though I have only myself to blame for that.

Yet... exaggerated as it sounds, cliched as it may seem to an outsider, that blessed feeling that sanctified me unwittingly then ever sustains me now. The one time you willingly held me, the one time you were rubbing my back, when you offered to carry me when I was in pain... In that moment, I was the luckiest girl in the entire world. I didn't see it then, but looking back, I know it, and I will always be grateful for it.

Always.

FUCK

Interview at NTU today, barring a disaster, I'll get in.

And then I was googling random terms at home, and guess who is in NTU as well?

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK.

Okay. I don't hate her. In fact, I never have. I've been envious of her. Envious of her because- well, never mind. But she reminds me of the shame that eats away at me, of the things I'm not and I can never be. I'll never be half the woman she was. I'll never be half the lady she is.

Yes. If you're thinking it's someone with the initials PCH, you're right.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

And to some random idiot who was yammering about it, for the last time, she's 慧, I am 惠. End of story.

FUCK.

Getting a Clue

Someone- I’m not saying who- said maybe I should get a clue on what’s making my hackles rise to begin with, so what the hell, maybe I should.

-Chief of all, I’m fucking pissed off because I was an absolute fucked up bitch whose damn actions- or mis-actions caused her to lose the person she cared for the most. And I’ve only my own fucked up reflection to blame.

-Second of all, people who’ve done worse than me grades wise are getting their acceptance letters to university and there’s nothing but silence at my end. I only like suspense in movies. Get it?

-I’m surrounded by avaricious idiots who wear hats bigger than their heads then inveigle the meek into helping them- note the inverted commas around the H word. I refuse to elaborate on this in order to preserve dignity they don’t actually deserve…

-My school is whacked; what kind of idiot demands that students pay 25 dollars in cold hard cash for graduation gowns that don’t even come complete with a hood? Believe me, the damn gown- pink, hideously enough- looks like… something a low-class Dracula wore in a shoestring budget movie. Oh wait. If we didn’t buy these, our taxes would be spirited to… hmm. More ERP gantries, promoting Ris Low to advertise condoms… must count blessings.

-My left leg is royally busted. It even hurts to walk at times. Need I say more?

-I want to take a motorcycle licence but objections are abound.

-My computer is dying on me. As is my cell.

-The print shop in school needs to get itself in order- the ink’s hellish of late. Hello, where are my school fees going? Oh yeah. To manufacture those low-class Dracula gowns.

-My neighbour (not X, though I wish, I wish) is making a HELL lot of noise.

-The bus ride home’s the same way and I’ve been blasting my walkman as loudly as I can to counter it- just today an auntie told me to turn the volume down even though I’d earplugs in. But I’ll go nuts eitherwise.

-I’m feeling physically damn damn damn sick, can’t sleep these days, eyes are hurting, left ankle and knee are acting up.

There’s actually more but this is getting depressing. I’m going to take a shower then get some sleep. Ugh!

Sorry

I know I’ve been leaving this place a graveyard. I’m sorry. But I’d rather have a relatively empty blog as opposed to one filled with rage upon senseless rage every day, so let time and nature work its course.

I don’t know what the fuck is wrong but problems seem to be cropping up from all angles- avaricious, slothful people aka leeches who can’t walk half a foot even if they were thrown three quarters of the damn distance. I keep telling myself not to waste perfectly good energy over them but the thing about me is that I’m just too darn volatile. Once you push my buttons, I go boom- or Boomz, as that damned Pasir Ris Low would say.

And once I explode, it just keeps getting better. I can’t stop that easily. I’m not the kind of person who’ll cry, go to sleep, then wake up wondering what on earth happened.

I’m also not the sort of girl who can drown her sorrows in chocolate. I hate candy. And soap operas/ chick flicks will never make the cut either. Hell, I’ve enough of my problems without dealing with someone who wondered what possessed her to fuck her maid. And the maid’s a horse. Or something. You get the idea.
I used to go run whenever I was mad or sad back in secondary school, and that happened a lot. The only problem is that I’m relatively immune to it now so it’s a no go, and add to that my old injury. It’s plaguing me again in some twisted roundabout kind of karma. Yeah, payback’s a bitch. But so am I. (woo, angsty much?)

I don’t drink- wish I could, but I can’t. I hate how beer tastes. And I knew he drank it before so it’ll make me feel even sadder and more upset and I’ll be back at square one- or lower.

I don’t have a very wide circle of friends- unsurprisingly, but I’m just not interested. And it won’t make much of a difference because I don’t tell things to people very well. And I know, English freak as I am, that it’s hardly proper to commence a sentence with “and’’, but did I mention I don’t care?

I don’t have a significant other to off-load everything to. Knowing me, I wouldn’t want to anyway. I’m just that sort of person who stews inside and personifies a volcano subsequently when the pressure gets too bad.

I don’t dare to punch a wall because I know once I do, I’ll break something beyond fixing. Be it me or the wall, and once I get started, the telly will be out the window before I know it too.

Don’t ask me to play the piano because I’ll make whoever wrote the Phantom of the Opera roll in his grave. Whether or not he’s dead, I don’t care. Don’t ask me to draw or write or scream because it’s about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
Yeah. Straitjackets were invented for me, you’re thinking. But you know something, I don’t give a damn about that either.

Disclaimer: this post did exactly what I hoped to avoid, and it’s utterly meaningless to boot. But after seven cans of fully caffeinated diet coke in two hours, sue me for living.

You're fucked up.

Let’s just say I’m fed up with blatant inactivity. I’ve nothing against fat people- X***** was slightly overweight himself as a teenager and he’s still a god on earth- but I’ve got a major problem against people who complain about burgeoning waistlines, wonder about the injustice and curse the amoebas in the river for his predicament- all while inhaling yet another piece of cake. Get my drift?

Well, that’s what I can’t stand- no ifs, no ands, and no cigarette butts. I’m tired of listening to you whine and moan all the time, going “Why why why’’ in that strident voice of yours- how old are you, girl? Older than I am? Hell, wake up. It isn’t that I don’t mourn the loss of innocence- I do. I can’t stand people who don’t act their age; I hate naivety and I detest inaction even more.

Stop proving that humans are genetically related to irritating mosquitoes. Who are you to judge me about what I do when you yourself need to take a good hard look in the mirror we dub life? If you want to judge someone else, please at least be of a particular calibre rather than start being a pompous windbag because it sure doesn’t get you any popularity votes.

In other words, stop teaching your grandmother how to give a blow job.

You talk about your dreams and then wonder why life is so hard on you when you simply aren’t putting in effort- granted, I said that effort no longer pays considering that results aren’t always a guarantee, but hey, at least I tried a hell lot more than you ever did- and you expect things to fall from the sky. Girl, you’re pathetic, pathetic and naïve and you really need to wake up your idea- assuming anything inhabits that seemingly-impregnable skull of yours.

To you, the world is all about sunshine and daisies and unicorns- I’ve exhorted it endlessly and I don’t know why I bother now, but you’re too sensitive and shy, you don’t know how to fight for what you want. You give up too easily and to sum it up, you’re as lazy as heck. Do you think people are born smart? Yes, I admit that there are some people who are technically more intelligent than others, achieving twice the results in half the time, but we’re not talking about getting a ticket into Mensa or making Kim Peek look bad!

We’re talking about getting into university and I swear to god, if you can catch any ruffian off the street and force him to study hard enough, BBBB is as attainable as… well, touching your finger to your nose.

You come running to me for advice, don’t expect roses because I give it to you hard, take it or leave it. You want this exam and that exam but you don’t take anything seriously.

You don’t bother to study, you don’t put in any effort- when I scream, you do a bit to appease me and then we go back to square one and I think you should really know that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and hoping for the same result.

To tell you the truth that is what everyone but me hasn’t been in denial with regard to- you’re not going to get anywhere. I seriously, seriously, doubt that you’ll even get halfway where you expected. Your English fucking sucks for a twenty year old- hello, X***** wasn’t born in Singapore and his English actually beats yours hands and pants down, your knowledge of anatomy is pathetic at best, and to top it off, you can’t solve a chemical equation even if it solved half of itself for you.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t see anything wrong with a person who can’t tell his Supraspinatus from his Gluteus Maximus- my mother thinks they’re both Latin pastries- but if you want to wear a big hat, then you jolly well ensure your head is large enough to hold it up. If you want to be a doctor, then prove it- prove that you’re more than just a whining, irritating, “Why why why why why why’’ naïve little fly.

And don’t you fucking dare to tell me what to do. Go examine yourself first. Until you’ve walked a mile in my beat-up shoes, you have no right to tell me what’s what.

Yes, I’ll never be a doctor. But neither and never will you, and I’m glad- I’m actually glad. Until and unless you do something about yourself and get off that increasingly-expanding bum, you deserve it.

To anyone who doesn’t understand what the hell transpired, it’s okay, it’s not important. I’ve got a lot more to post- regarding other stuff- but that can wait.

Mel, thanks for warning me about the barrage of questions. Thanks love…

What I spent an entire night thinking about:

人有悲伤离合，月有阴晴圆缺。突然间领悟到，不管开心或者颓丧，月亮还是照样升起。日子还是会过去的。笑也一天，哭也一天。你一向来都讨厌我哭哭啼啼。那就听话吧。

不知道你是哪位幸运的女士，也没兴趣知道。我只想求你一个忙：除了激动的泪水、喜庆的泪水、幸福的泪水，请你别给他原因哭出来。

活得好，活得幸福美满。不管是回国发展，或回国结婚，我不好奇。只会深刻地祝福你一路顺风，生活永远永远平安。

谢谢你。

Why Sarah X does not wear makeup

Someone I was randomly chatting with this morning over QQ asked me a particular question that set a morning-sluggish mind a-flutter. “Hey! Why don’t I ever see you in makeup or anything like that?’’

Well, I suppose I could waffle and come up with some soul-deep, profound reason about my aversion to all things cosmetics e.g. I’m a feminist and I seek to be empowered without the use of feathers and fluff/ lipstick is tested on animals and I love rabbits too much/ rogue comes from the oil of sperm whales (and I used to think women got pregnant from swimming with those but never mind)… and so on.

In truth, that’s not the reason. I simply detest makeup with a passion- at least when it’s on my countenance. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against women (or even men- for the right reasons, that is) applying makeup. I have something against it if the time you spend preparing for a hot date surpasses the entire length of the next three dates added together, but I have seen women, including my mum and teachers, who look really good in blush and foundation. It’s an art to make oneself look nice, and I respect and appreciate it both.

However, here’s the clicker- I CAN WOW AT THE SHEER FLEXIBILITY OF OLYMPIC GYMNASTS WITHOUT HAVING THE COMPULSION TO GET UP ON THE BALANCE BEAM MYSELF. Note the significant difference.

Since childhood, I’ve never like anything additional on my body, my glasses being the only exception. My hands are just that itchy and I’ve never been able to keep nail polish on for longer than a few minutes before I start, almost unconsciously, picking at it. Even if that wasn’t the case, my lifestyle at the moment doesn’t suit much primping- it never really has either, to be perfectly honest.

In primary school and secondary school, in addition to makeup being banned along with Mp3s and wine and Viagra, I was far too hyperactive to go through a day without my entire shirt being rendered transparent. Admittedly, I still am, just that I keep it in check better. I was either running after someone, or running away from someone, or falling into the sandpit or jumping off the monkey bars or walking in the flooded drains whenever the rain was heavy- so you can see that makeup wouldn’t have lasted that long and that intact under THOSE circumstances.

In polytechnic, while I might have been a bit less wild, makeup was seriously the furthest thing from my mind. Besides, I didn’t appreciate having to scrape five layers worth of solidified cream from my skin at the end of every day (yes, I know that it’s possible to put on makeup without looking like some grotesque opera performer, but we tend to think in extremes)! Considering that I run nearly two hours a day and I hate taking a bus anywhere within walking distance, I perspire like someone’s turned a tap on in my head. Makeup WILL melt.

I can count on my fingers the number of times I’d to put make up on (I’ve, horrifyingly, participated in my fair share of competitions and stuff but whenever possible, I’ll chuck the foundation somewhere else):

-In kindergarten, for some stupid performance about birds in the trees. Don’t ask me why either. It’s like child abuse LOR.

-In primary six when the school choir performed in the Christmas concert. The only thing I liked was the gold glitter hairspray- because I got to zap everyone in the face when they weren’t noticing.

-In secondary 2, for speech day (this has a lot of bad memories because I remember someone dancing in this… :() but I kept it to a minimum and I remember I went sliding down the banister of the stairs toward the canteen after that so a lot of powder came off.

-In secondary 3, emcee for Chinese New Year concert; Riyanti told me she’d shoot me if I so much as breathed before going onstage, but I was running around the stage like a maniac and the spotlights also caused everything to start dissolving…

-Temporary insanity. Put blue eyeshadow on my lips and ate lipstick because someone dared me to.

Ya, that should be it. It’s not a long history, but it’s colourful!
That said, I do think that university might be a time for me to mellow out- it’s long overdue and I know I better get my lady-act in order. Besides, if I make it into Chinese dance (by some miracle) and manage to not get kicked out for existing, I’ll have to have makeup on, like it or not. Who knows?

I’ve just gotta keep an open mind and heart and pair of open ears. With my mouth shut.

No matter how not-bloody-likely the last bit may be.

Studying with my special girl.

I was so riled up over administrative matters (Let's leave the continuation for another time, shall we) that I totally forgot to blog about the other day when I was in school for a study session with Xiwen! Wish I'd the crazy photo she took of herself using my webcam, because certain things are just THAT priceless.

She's not bad; she's definitely got potential, and to sit and stare at the periodic table for that long is no easy feat. The only hitch might be that she's just a bit raw and somewhat new to everything, but that's really okay because everyone starts someplace and the only way is up.

I find myself envying her sometimes- when you first start pursuing something, there's so much to absorb and you're on fire to learn. As you get older, passion begins to die down and it takes a lot to get it flaring once more. Her mind is like a sponge that is more than willing to take up anything new; I remember starting off on a totally brand-new, sparkling clean slate and loving every bit of it. Now, I just feel so tired and faded- big deal if the Ileum has more fat within it than the Jejunum does because it's just another number in the long list of facts I've drilled into my head.

I remember hearing music in the names of the muscles- weird ya: corrugator supercili, levator labii superioris- and now, while I'm still as conscientious as I can expect of myself, I'm working mechanically (I wanted to type "robotically'' but the moment I thought of robots... nevermind), nothing more.

She thinks I'm helping her. In reality, she's the one helping me; she's giving me good reason to keep going.

What the ding dong........~~~~

The post title may seem incongrous with the contents, but I can assure you in all manner of frankness that I am absolutely pissed.

As in pissed with a capital P.

As in pissed to the extent of needing to take a piss in someone's face.

As in pissed with a bloody institution that dares to call itself a school.

Everyone's getting university acceptance letters- everyone aside from students from my school- and I'm using that word with far more sweetness and light than it deserves. While students from other polytechnics and JCs (I know I'm missing out MI but my heart feels like it's been stabbed each time someone says it, so fuck ya) have been shortlisted for interviews, we can't even complete our applications because for god knows whatever reason, our school's keeping 'em hostage till graduation.

Granted, Submission of Supporting Docs does not close to the 15th of May, but what the heck? Graduation's on the 11th, and that's a last minute coup if ever one existed. Hello, understand the meaning of placement assigned on a first-come-first serve basis?

However good my results are- and I assure you they are good, I won't even be CONSIDERED for anything considering that my school is keeping the results to wank off to.

AND THE BEST MOTHERFUCKING PART?

"If you don't go for graduation ceremony blah blah blah (yeah, because I'm sooooooooooooooo desperate for your buffet food which probably contributed to half the bodies in the morgue), you can collect your transcript of all six semesters on the 17th earliest.''

WHAT. THE. FUCKING. HELL????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HELLO! The whole world revolves around you; are you that much of a megalomaniac to think that time and tide stops at your whims and fancies? Well, wake up and smell the coffee that's long since evaporated and talk to my elbow because you're not worth the extension!

How about people who need to find jobs as of- NOW? How about those applying for overseas universities whose application windows are prior to the 15th? I understand perfectly why no one in our school's never really made it, thanks to this screwed up system imposed by a man with........ oh wait. You need to have BALLS to be a man. I stand corrected and erected; "Imposed by an alien humanoid who grows on people.''

And hell, so does cancer.

What's more. I emailed at least 13 different departments- far more politely than they deserve, I add!- and the only response I received were those infinitely maddening ones- "THis is a computer generated email and no reply is needed, we appreciate your feedback my mother is cooking black chicken soup temperatures hit a new high of thirty five degrees celcius today jesus returned to earth''.

*stares at the computer with a you're-selling-me-used-underwear-face.*

*face-cactus*

*plucks out the catcus then flings it at whoever's ass this stuff was blown out from*

HELLO! ACCOUNTABIITY! The least you could do was dignify a valid and legitimate query with a response! If you wanted to make me disrespect you even further, whoever you are, then congratulations, you've succeeded, and I swear I'm not the only one thus affected.

Such high handedness simply REEKS of NEGLIGENCE, IRRESPONSIBILITY, AND AN UTTER DISREGARD OF THE WELFARE OF THE STUDENTS YOU SO CLAIM TO LOVE AND LINK ARMS AND LEGS WITH!

Now before you go on about me being NATO (no action talk only), I'm storming down to school (unfortunately devoid of a contigent) armed with a very excitable tongue. Mum is warning me to hold my fire, but the school can go start quaking in its shoes.

Sarah Xu's on the warpath; better hide while you still can- Jesus don't live here no more and you all gonna fucking DIE!!!!!!!!!!!

*will update later.

My vision is totally attacked.

I'm personifying exhaustion right now, so if nothing makes sense, you know that I fell asleep right on the computer- testing the keyboard for drool resistance, as my mother would say. Give me some time to think of something concrete to post here and I'll do it.

Right now... there are 640 muscles (depending on your source) in the human body and a very exhausted Sarah Xu is trying to get all of 'em under her belt good and proper. I was born insane, sue me... when I wake up.

Till then, good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, may X***** walk in my dreams and keep me safe and may I not wake up dead.

Yes, this post is utter rubbish. Yes, I don't care. *yawns......

‘’It only hurts when I slow down. The trick is to keep going fast’’- William Wilberforce

I remember a passage from one of my favourite books- A Dance of Sisters by Tracey Porter. I first read it when I was twelve, almost 13, and if anyone knows why I was so obsessed with all things regarding dance at that age, well, keep your mouth zipped. In a nutshell, it’s about a girl whose immersion in the rigorous world of ballet teaches her a few painful lessons- lessons that resonate through time and life outside of dance, lessons that aren’t meant to be forgotten.

“…You have many gifts for a ballet dancer, but I do not think you have the temperament to dance. You do not know how to fight for a part. You are too sensitive and shy. You gave up too easily. Yes, there are many girls with pretty feet and legs. There are many girls with talent. In the end, these things do not mean so very much. Yes, a dancer must have these things. But she must also have something more- a dancer must be resilient and strong.’’

“… You must work very hard, you must devote your entire life to ballet and you must never let a criticism from anyone or a mean look from another student stop you. Is this the life you want? You are lucky you are so young. You have a few more years to answer this question.’’ – Madame Alicia Elanova, A Dance of Sisters.

It’s incredibly relevant. And these are things I can never say to you face to face, so I’ll say them here. In life, there are swimmers and drifters- the former being the kind who delve right into whatever they want with both feet, charging in relentlessly, fighting all the way in one single breath until they reach the end. You are already twenty years old, and to be brutally honest, enough time has already been wasted. It’s one thing to know what you want, it’s another to have the confidence to attain it at whatever cost necessary.

I’m not advocating becoming a snob whose nose is perpetually stuck in the air. I’m saying that while everyone doubts himself sooner rather than later, you have to fight to defend whatever it is you have your mind set on; you have to aspire and work for it with courage. There is no time to stop. There is even less margin for error. This is your last chance and you know it as well as I do that interest and talent can only get you so far.

A confident and daring spirit does the rest. You have to take that risk, like it or not; abandon all possible thought of failure, or money, or whatever limitations there are. If you’re good, these things have a way of resolving themselves eventually- the important thing is charging forward rather than stopping and starting, hemming and hawing, because the world’s spinning on an axis that waits for neither of us.

You will hate me for this but I rather you hate me and know this than love me and go on blissfully unaware. You’re already considered overage and behind in a good many respects. You have to, like it or not, learn in months what others have had years to do so. And yet you can’t say “If only… If only… If only…’’ because it’s too late, and because regret fills no bellies. Stop thinking there’s anything special about doctors or medical students because there isn’t. It’s about hard work, end of story. If anyone thinks otherwise they are simply 1. Misinformed 2. Not working hard enough.

There is no prize without sacrifice. If putting in six hours a day is what it takes, then hell, do it. If it means not having a social life until after the examinations, then goddamn it, what’s holding you back? You may not feel the urgency, but I do. Six months will rush by at breakneck speed faster than we give it credit for.

I know what others have said- others who I shall not mention here, that your dream is just that, a dream and nothing more because you’ve passed up on far too many previous and precious opportunities, because you didn’t grab the carrot that was dangling before you at that point of time. That you’re not daring enough, that you’re too shy, and you’ll hold back, waiting for others to lead, something which a doctor cannot and should never do. Okay, that’s true, so you either 1. Prove them right 2. Don’t prove them right.

You want me to be honest? I’m scared too when I see the MCAT paper. Scared as in pants-pissing scared, scared as in black-belt-grading-three-sparring-rounds scared right out of my skin. I’m not that much better than you (in fact I’m not even sure if I am), but I sure know that I am panicking already and hitting my books as if there’s no tomorrow- because the date in six months can well be as soon as tomorrow, if you’re not mindful.

I’m not sure if you can understand Cantonese or I’d post the song up here, but this is one of my favourite songs- look at the Chinese translation below. It applies to every single one of us, and I sincerely wish that you will remember it well:

主唱：鄧麗欣
作曲：李漢民
填詞：鄧麗欣
編曲：李漢民

將青春　釋放熱烈拍掌
好光陰　時間定要延長
不開心　不要亂著去想
沿途定會伴你翱翔

重重路障　也找到路向
要做到　定要堅強
前途未會惆悵
去闖大理想　新方向

要快樂　最重要細想
發奮為了　一生打仗
開拓前路向　投入亦要自強
發誓要邁進這理想

靠努力會獲到讚賞
眾友伴會為你高唱
站到起點處　望前途晴朗
打破舊屏障　新意念夢想
來伴我找方向

REPEAT＊

靠努力會獲到讚賞
眾友伴會為你高唱
站到起點處　望前途晴朗
打破舊屏障　新意念夢想
來伴我找方向

Disclaimer: In case you’re wondering about the deal with me and MCAT, while I’m more or less a student of either NTU or Tsinghua already (not sure about Tsinghua though), I’m not going to be satisfied to stop at a science degree. Doing post-grad in medicine/ biological science sounds good to me, but only if I can qualify for a scholarship- hence the need to garner another credential that may make me just the slightest bit more eligible for that.

Memory Keeping

I wrote this essay awhile ago after that Neurobiology lesson about how memories are formed. It's far from my best work on account of how my eyes were all but closed, but grammatical errors wise, it's most relevant to whatever I'm feeling now, so go ahead, knock yourself out.

Tolerance, to different permutations of religious belief, has never been Man’s defining attribute. I do not profess to be on expert on all religions, but if seeing is believing, then I am all too aware of what I see, and I have my own questions with regard to what exactly I am beholding. If there is indeed a God- the presence or absence and number in the case of the former is a topic to which the jury is still out, however- then I would want to believe that he’d want us to be discerning and intellectual- exercising the gift of wisdom he has endowed us with. Otherwise, creating humanoid puppets would have much sufficed.

The major bone of contention I have to pick about is the credibility of the Bible- something revered by Christians and needed to be followed to a T with no exceptions granted or questions asked. Apparently, the existence of the Bible came about after its contents were passed down via word-of-mouth from one generation to its successors, and thus the content was perpetuated. While this may sound feasible in theory, practically, there are a whole host of problems that throw into the spotlight the very impossibilities- or at least difficulties- in preserving the original teachings wholesale.

To commence, consider the simplest illustration one can provide. All of us have probably, at one time or another in our childhoods, engaged in the game known as “Broken Telephone.’’ A group of children sit arranged in a circle or line, and a whispered message is passed from one child to the one beside him, and the fun comes in realizing how distorted- often highly and comically- the message has become by the time it arrives at the last participant. The very name of the game in itself is a testimony to how relay systems are no more foolproof than sieves can be, and that time has the effect of eroding whatever was once possessed- an issue that I’ll address further on in the context of this discussion.

Now, science and religion have been assiduously kept as two separate entities for a valid reason, being that a religious scientist (pious to something aside from test tubes and Bunsen burners, something I too am guilty as charged) is almost an oxymoron. Science and irreligiousness are so synonymous that they can practically be taken as interchangeable terms. However, the war between them has raged, often behind closed doors, and here I present a case in which the empirical, cold, hard facts of the former may threaten the credibility of the argument thrown out by its antithesis.

Memory is a curious little thing, and scientists, to date, have yet to account for exactly how this phenomenon occurs with such diversity amongst individuals. The precise intricacies of the mechanisms are yet unclear, but certain facts have since been carved in stone, so to speak.

Generally, memories are formed over exposure to a stimulus- be it an auditory, visual, sensory, or even emotional one. Whether or not the memory persists usually depends on certain factors, such as its importance, or certain associations that may go with it. The bottom line is that these memories are encoded, stored, and then retrieved, the last often at a later date and often requiring some cueing before occurring fully. However, the process is never quite as clear-cut as it appears, for memory distortion is highly probable, and rampant in more ways than one may give it credit for.

For example, the term “mind over matter’’ is not purely metaphorical. An occurrence scientifically termed as “Schema’’ exists, and it gives allowance to the fact that our memories can be influenced by our prior expectations or pre-conceived notions. To elaborate, if one has always had the idea that a dormitory should have grey blankets on the bunk beds, as propagated perhaps by a variety of sources- the media, books, magazines, then upon one’s first visit to the dormitory itself, he may leave with the memory that the blanket was indeed grey when in reality it was daisy-patterned.

Far fetched?

Perhaps slightly so, but this is not the only force at play. Hindsight bias is something we probably have experienced before, with varying degrees of subtlety. That is to say that if a woman’s relationship ends due to him cheating on her, she will tend to remember him as a particularly promiscuous man, the signs of which were evident from the very first five minutes of the virgin date. In reality, he might have been a perfectly straight-laced man till his folly, but she simply perceives and remembers it that way because in this case, the end influences the perception of the process. Similarly, humans have propensities for different connections, often seeing patterns when none exist.

Naturally, rain immediately after a two hour long car wash is likely to be any automobile owner’s worst ever nightmare. Often, a man will complain that deluges never fail to materialize as soon as he has given the vehicle a thorough scrubbing, disregarding the many other times in which not a drop of rain has fallen after the car wash. Sceptics of coincidence never fail to bring this up in their propositions, and I can understand why.

Furthermore, misinformation of sources is a memory distortion that is all too common, be it in daily life or after a large-scale event. A witness to a murder may state that a thirty four year old man with a tattoo of a butterfly on his cheek was the killer, but while the second part of his description might have been observed with his very own eyes, it would be highly improbable for him to have determined the age of the perpetrator upon visual stimuli alone with no previous relationship with the aforementioned person.

Chances are, he had read, in the newspapers sensationalizing the crime, that the man was indeed of the age, and that source of memory got lumped together with his own source of memory to form that statement he provided. Most of us have few memories of our babyhood, and what little we have are probably sketchy at best. However, many a time we have told a friend that we can remember our mother’s lacing up our little pink booties when in reality we might only know that because that particular story has been related by our mothers a good many times.

Now- understand why a large sample size of witnesses and alibis are preferred for use in court?
Memory is decidedly “loopy’’ in that respect. If we are to, however, exclude the possible problems that come with remembering, others remain.

Perception and learning go hand in hand. The most famous illustration of this would be a culture-targeted, or age-target, optical illusion. Assuming we present a complex optical illusion of an embracing couple surrounded by dolphins (the latter appearing depending on how you perceive the orientation of brushstrokes, that is), to a mature person, he sees the couple as opposed to the dolphins, only realizing the latter after being enlightened to their very presence by someone else who does know they exist. A child, on the other hand, would see only the dolphins alone simply because he has not yet known of the sensual intimacy that is associated with romancing couples.

Similarly, Westerners might be used to the concept of square shaped houses. When given the moving optical illusion of a parallelogram shaped house that has virtual figures walking across it, their eyes, in order to maintain a semblance of normalcy (what they are familiar with) tend to imagine that the figures are actually changing in length in order to preserve the impression that the house is indeed square shaped. If this illusion, however, is presented to people of another culture who are totally unused to square houses, the house is obviously parallelogram shaped and nothing is lengthening whatsoever.

With thousands of different interpretations abound, who is to say that the pioneering authors of the Bible were not in one way or another influenced upon putting their quills to the parchment? Even if they came from all walks of life, would there still not be bias as a result of prior experiences, cultural differences, or even information processing?

Lastly- geographical distance makes credibility once again, questionable. Even with today’s cutting edge technology where communications are concerned, telegraph machines are not error-proof and e-mail can get lost in the vastness of cyberspace. I would be so bold to say that by the time a message from one part of the world, often relayed by rudimentary means- arrives at its destination, it would have been subject to at the very least, mild distortion of facts and figures. Naturally, by the time that was propagated somewhere else, it would have, for lack of a better phrase, gathered some new moss wherever the stone rolled, and been altered from the very first form.

All that having been said, I feel that the Bible’s credibility as a golden book is not exactly watertight, and more has to be done- more as in not blind faith alone- to convince sceptics of why exactly it is deemed to be so infallible, when the writers themselves, like all of us, are not.
So, to refute a sentence I gave in my foremost paragraph, seeing is not always equated to believing!

And that's what scares me most of all. Memory distortion. Alternatively, I could know, technically, that something's not a particular way, but I remember it as such.

For example, I know Millennia Institute's uniform is blue, but when I think back to the first time I saw X***** in it, I remember perceiving it as green, or blue green at best. Perhaps it was on account of how the late-afternoon sunlight streaming into the hall made colours a bit blurred, but that's how I remember it.

Or sometimes I think that his hair was parted on the left, and sometimes I think it was parted on the right, and sometimes I'll wonder if you can even part curly hair and that he had it simply brushed backward.

Sometimes it gets difficult to remember his smile- outside of the numerous photographs I have, that is. As in, the smile that made his entire face light up and the corners of his eyes crinkle in that adorable manner. Or I'll remember something and forget something else- his hands, large and squarish, but are his fingers longer in relation to his palm or is it the other way around? Or which foot he injured the night we were training at Cheng San- I remember the injury and who he borrowed a plaster from, but I can't remember which foot was hurt.

And that's what scares me. It being as though he never existed.

A list of wishes

Spent the afternoon with Ileane, Sha, and their FYP mates. I feel so old hanging around them- but on the flip side, being with them makes me feel young! Only metaphorically speaking, though, considering that Sha's actually older than I am by a couple of months. Whatever the case, it felt great to just get out and clear my head. I really need to get out more.

I'm pretty tired now so I'm not going to say much more, but I've been doing some thinking about what I want to do before the year is out, so here goes. I'll edit it as and when it's necessary:

Twenty things I want to Achieve before 2010 dies:

1. Get into either NTU or Tsinghua University (granted, the former's more or less a given)

2. Grow my hair out, hope it reaches past my shoulders by Christmas.

3. Get into NTU then join either Track & Field (keen on this) or Chinese Dance (if you know why, shut up)

4. Lose 10kg (don't ask because I'm not gonna reply)

5. Be a better friend to Sha, Ileane, Evan, PJ etc.

6. Memorize that monologue by Macbeth- the one that starts "Is that a dagger I see before me...?''

7. Study for the MCAT examinations with Xiwen.

8. Get really good grades for my first year in university. I know this trend should be perpetuated and sustained, but assuming 2012 is real...

9. Improve my Chinese (again, if you know why, shut up).

10. Finish those drawings (no need to ask about this).

11. Get my driving licence on the first try- read about a woman who flunked 768 times over a course of 11 years.

12. Improve my stamina in running/ swimming- without getting hurt because medical bills are nasty, nasty things.

13. Stay single and REMAIN SINGLE. (unless... no, don't think about that.)

14. Get a pair of black half-finger gloves (again, if you know why, shut up).

15. Spend more time at the piano.

16. Stop saying yes to everyone who asks a favour of me.

17. Read the newspapers every day so I'll know... never mind.

18. Learn to let go of what I don't have.

19. Learn to treasure what I DO have.

20. Get Millennia Institute's PE shirt (again if you know why, STFU).

Peace out,
Sarah.

A letter from my mother.

I woke up and found this on my bedside table. Thanks Mum for giving me permission to share it.

Sare-Bear (yes, this is her nickname for me and if you repeat it I’ll show you just how sharp my teeth are, I swear it)-

I stayed up late last thinking about everything until I finally conceded defeat to my exponentially-increasing persistent eyelids. I’m not going to lie to you and sugar coat things because you’ve seen for yourself that rainbows and roses aren’t what make the world go around. I AM disappointed, Sarah, and I AM angry.

I’m a mother myself whether or not you respect me as one, and if my kid were to come home cut up and crying, I’d have taken the head off whoever had inflicted that injustice upon him. I want so much to scream at you, knock some sense into that seemingly-impervious head of yours, and at the same time, I want so badly to hug you, the way I’ve not done in, oh, the past ten over years.

What you did was wrong on so many levels. You’re not stupid, but it’s one thing to be smart and another to show it. You didn’t, and I think you know that too. I wish I could tell you that he’ll forgive you the way I’ve done. I wish I could tell you everything’s okay, but we both know that it isn’t the case. So I’ll just be direct with you, but I want you to remember that you’re loved in more ways than one, and by more than one person.

Sarah, you are my daughter, my beautiful daughter, and believe it or not, for all your flaws, you are special, and unique, in your own wonderful way. You could be a President Scholar, or a road sweeper, or weigh 220kg and stand at 3 metres tall with scales and a green tail and it won’t make a difference because you’re still my daughter. My love for you is unconditional- like your love for X* C*** is. Surely you can understand that.

It breaks my heart to see you hurting yourself- by running and exercising like a fanatic just so you’ll sleep deeply and dreamlessly without nightmares. Mothers cover up their sadness far too often with anger, but the sadness doesn’t cease to exist. Yes, you’re right. He has to forgive you. But you have to forgive you too, and you’re punishing yourself in a way that’ll make anyone fume- him, me, everyone who has a halfway functioning brain can see that this is too much. Stop. Please. Don’t do this to yourself anymore.

You are absolutely worthy as you are. You don’t need to be a robotics champion or a walking Chinese dictionary before that makes you a “good’’ person. I don’t buy that and you shouldn’t either. When we’re angry, we tend to see only the bad things about a person. But I will tell you that anger takes energy that can be better channelled somewhere else and that I hope, someday, he will also see and- even if not leave out all the rest- recognize that loving, loyal, caring girl that I know you still are.

Deep inside.

Life is as fleeting as it is transient. Live it courageously and with passion, in forgiveness and strength and integrity. The Lord does not give us more problems than we can overcome, and no matter how hard it hurts, you will be okay. Maybe not now, but you will be. Don’t lose sight of that.

Don’t lose sight also of this- Sare-Bear, that whatever happens, whoever happens, I love you very, very, very, very, VERY much, and nothing in this world or any other will ever change that.

-Mum


It's obvious where I get my way of words from, isn't it?

But that made my morning. Not made it as in a hundred percent better, but it did shake me awake better than Coke Zero ever did. I still have you, and thank God I still have you. I can't and won't disappoint you, and I hope one day to give you reason again to say you're proud of me for reasons aside from just being me. Love you.

Twenty good things (???) about Sarah Xu

This is my mum’s idea, not mine, but it did make me feel better, somewhat. My mum knows me scarily well even without me saying anything; she’s disappointed as hell and she told me she loves me a hell lot more than I deserve (I promised her I’d stop saying hell and damn and everything so I’ll try to quit that), but she said I’m feeling bad enough as it is, and she’ll save the lecture- for a time when I’m feeling a bit less bad.

I was like, yeah, as if that’s possible. So she told me to find a reason to feel good about myself. I told her I probably would feel okay (not great because I’m really still feeling like- fine, I’m not going to say it) when I got my first good grade in NTU (assuming I 1. Get in 2. Can understand what’s going on to begin with). She shot back, no, I want you to find a reason to feel good about yourself NOW- and that reason CANNOT include… well, someone whose name starts with X.

I went whatever, but she was standing in the doorway so I had to act like my ears were working. To be honest, after so long of not knowing where he ends and where I begin, I can’t tell which part of me is still Sarah- as in Sarah that’s totally Sarah if that makes sense, but whatever. I could say that I’ve improved my Chinese by a long shot, but I know WHY I tried so hard in it in the first place, and I could say I’ve become more interested in Maths but that’s… well, because he was good at it too.

Anyway, I came up with this pathetically and laughably short list; Mum’s not pleased with it but whatever- and she says that I’m disgracing my own vocabulary by saying whatever to everything and anything. *sigh*

1. I’m good in English (and I’m trying hard not to think about how I always felt bad that I was and he wasn’t but w…)


2. My left eye has a degree of a 1000 plus but my right eye’s better at half of that. (I told you I was at wit’s end)

3. I’m not fat (but not healthy either but ARGH HELL)

4. I’m able to support myself (for the most part) with 1. Tutoring 2. Being a miser

5. I’m not on drugs (don’t tell me a person can be a drug because I DON’T WANNA HEAR IT!)

6. I don’t smoke (and I remember he doesn’t either, FML)

7. I have nice hair (??) – I think.

8. I’m not gay, but there’s nothing technically wrong with being gay either so I’m not sure if this counts.

9. I’ve been on the Roll of Honours again this semester (but this is expected from my mum so WTF)

10. I’m always there to listen to and help my RP juniors (but I don’t follow my advice, hypocrite)

So I showed her this and she said come up with ten more and I told her if I tried, I’d be invalidating point seven on account of how I’d be ripping my hair out! But it was that or face the wrath of a woman scorned by her daughter, so… PART 2.

1. I can play the piano pretty well (but again, this doesn’t count because I know why I learnt it.)

2. I’m a kickass long distance runner- Cross Country 2005 first position is still mine.

3. I can swim well for a girl (at least I don’t drown easily) but this is subjective. Mum says I look like a dog.

4. I was a good debater back in Bowen (and if you tell me a lawyer is a doctor who kills the societies, fuck off)

5. I have an excellent memory (yes, the infamous singing of the Periodic Table by E.H.)

6. For some reason, I’m very good at opening stubborn jars of peanut butter/jam/ bottles of Coke. Zzz.

7. I’m a light sleeper so it’s not difficult to wake me up and I don’t need an alarm clock.

8. I’ve never gone to jail- although I could change that.

9. I’ve not had an asthma attack for about a month. (But I dislocated my shoulder, so it’s a fair exchange?)

10. She made me say this one- I’m Sarah Leong (yes, she hates the name Sarah Xu even though Xu is her OWN surname, just that she’s 许 not 徐). And that can be a good thing. If I choose to make it as such.

Okay, I admit. It made me feel just a bit better. Notice I didn’t say anything about Chinese dance/ Chinese culture/ Robotics (and I suck at this anyway because my attention span is that bad) because I know deep inside… that’s not really me. It’s me in his shadow. Or something. Whateve… okay shut it.

But I did feel better. Not enough to start dancing to my guitar music (forgot that too), but better as in stop crying and return to the land of the living, for whatever it’s worth. I love him, but I love my family too. I owe them that much- to try. I can’t bear to disappoint anyone else.

Although there’s a side of me that doesn’t give a dam- a darn- either.

Ryan:

It’s been over a year now; and I can’t tell you how many sides of me I’ve felt surfacing, so I won’t even try. A lot of the time I blamed myself, saw myself as the person who plunged that knife right into his flesh. And I can’t tell you how much it hurt either.

Other times, I shrugged off all responsibility, or at least tried to deny that this had ever happened, pretending it was just a bad dream I’d wake up from and get on with my life. A large part of the time was spent wishing that he’d be back, just one more time, and we’d pick up where we’d left off.

I still can’t walk down the stairs without casting a glance at the letterboxes where he waited for me that fateful morning. Maybe I’ll never be able to, to stop that anymore than I can hear his voice echoing in my ears, saying he wanted me as his wife.

In the past three hundred and ninety plus days, I’ve been thinking and not thinking both. I know what role I played, and I accept and acknowledge that I played a part in it; in losing him, in hurting him. And I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t hurt, because much as I want him to be happy and out of danger, I’m still screaming like a spoiled kid having a tantrum at the thought of him being with someone else, someone more sane. I know how much I’ve blamed myself, every single day I’ve been haunted by his ghost in everything.

Like my mum can buy fishballs, and I’ll remember that he never really liked them, and while he was saying that all those years ago, I was sitting beside him at the fountain in the gathering dark, trying to eat barbecue food raw without letting anyone notice.

Or I’ll hear someone playing the piano and I’ll think of the time in the music room when he was playing the electric piano in there. I remember the music room had those huge mirrors on the side too, and I’d remember checking my reflection a thousand times to check, well, if he thought I was pretty. If I thought I looked pretty enough.

Or sometimes just looking at kids playing basketball and I’ll think of how mad I was at Kian Hao for saying that he wasn’t very good at it. Because in my eyes, he’d always been the best. And even if he wasn’t, technically, he was trying his best and that’s what mattered.

He tried his best with me. In fact, he did more than that. He put up with what no one should ever put with, and even then, one the last day, he did his duty. The way he’d promised; he never broke a promise. I wronged him and there’s no getting around that. There are no excuses either because I knew what I was doing and I made my choices. Maybe I wasn’t in the right state of mind, but I still did.

That said, though, it doesn’t mean I’m going to spend the next year like a walking corpse the way I have this entire year. He was human too, and he had his flaws. He wasn’t a perfect person, and I wasn’t too. In the end, he made his choice, as I made mine, and I have to learn to let go of that too- that he too knew what he wanted, and that that’s what he’s doing now.

He’s not the villain, and he’s not the hero, and while I’m the villain in this, I know that there’s more to Sarah than being that. I’ll always wonder what it’d have been like to touch his hair, the same hair that got him so mixed up with Colin to begin with because they looked identical in that respect. I’ll always wonder how our relationship would have gone had everything not transpired; our life together, our kids, in Singapore, or somewhere else. And it’ll always hurt. Always.

But I know also- and will have to constantly remind myself- that there were times when we were full of life, full of love. Times when he’d say something silly and I’d laugh. Times when we’d sit together on the bus journey home after training, exhausted but happy, not speaking, and I’d be content for the silence of being close to this man I loved- no, this man I love.

I still love him more than anything else. No one else will replace him, but time didn’t stop there. No matter how hard it is to accept that he’s gone, time didn’t stop, and it’s not fair to expect it to. A fair is a place where you eat hot dogs and ride the Ferris wheel, and it’s true. Days will pass whether or not I want them to, and I can only acknowledge what I did and live.

If anything ever good came out of this, it’s that I’ve come to know also that a person is capable of giving so much. His life, his blood, his everything. He would have sacrificed his life and dreams and hopes for me, and he didn’t lie either. He loved me, and I will be forever grateful of that. I’ve had a lot of time to escape, but I’m glad I faced up to it now.

This August, university starts. August, the month his life began, the month mine did too. I’m still torn between dancing and running, but I suspect the former will win out. Not because I want to be a duplicate of him- maybe, but also maybe because I want to feel the way he did, that long time ago, when he seemed to fly across the stage without wings, the day I fell in love with him. I am what I remember, and what I did, but I am also what I dream.

His smile will forever stay in my heart, the way his honey brown eyes looked golden in the light, the pattern of freckles on his upper arm. All of these things will remain close, where they matter. But life is going on for both of us, and as much as I want the best for him, I want the best for me too. And I am moving on. Because sooner or later, I have to.

Xu Chen- I never thought of you as Ryan, I always felt that Michael suited you better- I loved you, and I do now. Even now, even next year, whatever comes. Your life waits for you, as does mine, and no matter where we go, no matter how far apart we are, I know what you gave me, and I will always be thankful for that.

Always.

Clearing the air.

"You woman enough to get that baby into you, you woman enough to get it out.'' - my mum.

I realize that my last post might have come across as elitist, but that’s missing the point by a mile and the Boston Marathon to boot. It’s about one six-syllabled word that has fourteen letters and takes a lifetime to master- “ACCOUNTABILITY”’ with a capital A as that.

It’s all about being mature enough to lie in the bed you made. You can be a road sweeper, but if you’re perfectly content with where you stand, steadfast in duty and cheerful in deed, then you have my utmost respect because I’d want to reach that sort of self-actualization someday rather than spend eons chasing every possible mountain, never satisfied.

The person who makes me tick is the one who wants to rise above his station, but fails, and subsequently blames everyone but himself for his downfall.

Uneccessary? Yes. Pathetic? Even more so. I’ve seen ostriches who show more of their sand-buried heads, thanks.

I’ll never be a good counsellor because I don’t believe in soft approaches. I give you the truth and I give it to you as hard as a slap in the face. Yes, my apathy and lack of sensitivity is a weakness of mine, but before you go on berating me, ponder on this. If you’re a male, your platoon sergeant isn’t going to be much nicer to you when you finally do enlist in National Service.

Girls, you may escape that ordeal (I think we shouldn’t but that’s another post for another time) but life is going to throw us all curveballs at one point of time or another and you might as well learn to roll with the punches now. Stop being a flower raised in a perfectly shielded little hothouse or the heat in the kitchen’s going to fry you even before you step into a fifty metre radius of it.

Grow up, little girl, grow up. How old are you? Twenty? Twenty one? Stop suckling away at your mama’s titties, cut the damn umbilical cord and say, “Yes, it was my mistake. And I’ll accept it and move on from here.’’

You want my respect, goddamn earn it. Or you can go back to burying your head back in a nursing bra.

"When life stabs you in the gut with a serrated knife, you have two choices. Plunge it back in deeper and die, or yank it out, wash it, and hang it up to dry.'' - my mum.

Continuation of post below.

With regards to my last post- some have asked me, why am I so intent on harping on the matter at hand instead of exhorting the person in question to get a move on since time and tide waits for no yadda yadda yadda.

Well, here’s how I see it. In order for a wound to heal, you’ve gotta drain the scum and pus out of it. The underside of something is never pretty, but what’s necessary isn’t always roses and rainbows and eternal sunshine.

In order to let go, we need to embrace something one last time before loosening our grip. That is to say, get out of denial. To do otherwise, without reflection or subsequent correction, would only set you up for more failure yet to come, in much the same way. Don’t blame your mum, or your dad, or whatever cockeyed reason you can throw together in the pot of sorry excuses.

In fact, I’m not even sure if finances are a problem. If you’re really that determined to study, get a scholarship, take up a bursary, whatever the financial assistance schemes there are. Some may slip through the cracks eventually, but it’s not impossible; I’m definitely not well to do, at all.

I remember being six and losing a particular competition. I can’t really remember what for, I think it was something about music since I’d just started learning the piano then, and I was really upset. I fled to my mum for solace and asked her why I was so lousy- she bent over, with a secretive look on her face, and put her lips ever so gently to my ear while I wiggled in anticipation of the secret formula to success.

“BECAUSE YOU’RE JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH!’’ Yes, she yelled.

Needless to say, that gave me a shock and my dad was cross about it- the delivery, that is, not the essence, because it was true. Harsh, but spot on, impeccably so. If you’re good, you’ll be good. It’ll show. If you’re not, no amount of waffling or pretence will make you look the wee bit better. That’s just how it works.
My mum asked me last night if I were happy with my results. She had only one question. “Can you accept it?’’

That, loosely translated, means- can I accept whatever consequences have resulted? It’s not the failure that’s the problem. It’s failing to see the failure that is.

I’m so sick of the old- engineers were gifted from birth, doctors were born with silver spoons- fuck that fuck that fuck that along with whatever doughnut hole is willing to accommodate you, I say! That’s SO not true and you know it, you’re saying that just to make yourself feel a bit better for falling short!

Look back and tell me whether or not there were things you could have done differently.

The things we don’t do are often as bad as those we did do. Were there not times when you could have spoken up in class but didn’t? Were there classes you could’ve attended but chose to skip because there was one pore on your skin without hair sticking out of it? I’m doing that right now and you’d do well to follow, thanks!

Until and unless you can find yourself totally blameless, shut up and sit down; stop moaning about how- “Oh that person is naturally gifted etc etc etc.’’ So what. Some people are naturally smarter. But you don’t need an IQ of 19990 to get into a university. We’re not talking about Einstein incarnates. We’re talking about raw power, about effort, about commitment and devotion to stay there even when the going gets tough and the tornado buffets you.

You failed. Admit it. You’re a failure. Say it with me. Now get on with life before you stay that way for the rest of that pathetic existence.

*spits*

SERVES YOU RIGHT~~~~

“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Hate me because your boyfriend thinks so.’’

I read this quote somewhere and I’ve come across few truer words. After heaven knows how many years of an escapist mentality, I’m a firm subscriber to believing in reaping and correspondingly sowing whatever you put in to begin with.

Don’t come up with rubbish excuses that you were sick, the system is unfair, that the planets are an inch out of alignment because I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t think many people- employers and university representatives being chief on the list- would relish hearing it too.

Admit that you didn’t put in enough effort and that’s the end of the story. Yes, I acknowledge that luck has a role, I admit that fate smiles and frowns on others with differing frequencies; I believe that one can be in the right place at the right time and vice versa- but that’s no excuse to sit around bumming and expecting rubies to cascade in meteor showers right into that overfed lap that’s never been straightened into a standing position for the last ten decades.

Yes, you, I’m talking about you and you know damn well who you are. I’m glad you have to go through year four- I’m fucking glad. Nothing can make me happier because you’re getting your just desserts- suck on that! It’s none of my business, perhaps? Well, scratch that. It was my business when you dumped all the work on me in our module; when you ran off gallivanting heaven knows where with your boyfriend and subsequently claimed my work as your own.

Hello, just because I don’t stamp a copyright insignia all over everything I churn out doesn’t give you the liberty to take as much as you please. Ever heard of manners? Oh wait, you need a brain to do that…

You were a free loader, a burden to the team, and when the team got dragged down, who got blamed? Me! You smacked your butt and wiggled it away, content to leave everything to “Sarah-because-she’ll-be-the-bloody-sucker’’ who does everything and anything.

Last night, when I found out you have to repeat a year, I actually laughed. Yes, I laughed, and I banged my fists on my table in celebration. The gods are just.

So maybe I need to get off my high horse and stop being superior- but I’ll tell you this, while I’m not the best in the world and will never be, I’m better than you by a long shot and anyone with a functioning brain can see it. Which means you can’t, but I digress. You plant melons, don’t expect to see cherries sprouting out of the ground; that is a fact.

I know some people get cancer and I know some strike the lottery, but if that were the norm, then by god, just give up studying and go wait for the heavens to dispense manna, why don’t you? Great, I shouldn’t say that lest I inspire you to further glory.

You act like your life is so tough- what, because your boyfriend didn’t buy you a diamond ring? Oh, come on. Are you for real? Like, really? Really really? Get a life lah. I once made a mistake so terrible that it resulted in the person I loved most going clean fucking off the edge and not a day has passed without me being haunted. But after running away for an infinite period of time, I faced up to it- as you should. As you better.

There is no excuse for failure when it’s with regards to something you were in perfect control of. If you didn’t study, admit it. If you ran away from class, admit it. Open that mouth for a reason other than malicious gossip and admit you just didn’t try hard enough. If you can’t get into a particular course, accept the blame. It’s not about failure- although that’s bad enough. It’s about continuing on your merry way and thinking you did nothing wrong.

If you can’t get into university, admit you screwed up, then pick up the pieces an shake a leg because time isn’t waiting for you. Rather than moan that Sarah got onto honor roll, sarah this, sarah that. I’m as much a human as you are.

Ugh!

It’s fine if feelings aren’t mutual, but to know that you don’t believe that I do feel that for you is something else altogether. Or maybe it’s my own fault, but whatever the fucking reason it is, I don’t give a crap shit anymore. Seriously. It’s so much easier to just up and stop caring.

Temptation

Have you ever fantasized about killing someone? Actually killing someone?

I’ll probably sound like some emo gothic wannabe with blue hair and so many holes that her bf can fuck every one every day of her life and not get done ever. But yeah, I have.

As in, not literally plunging a knife into someone because that’d invalidate the purpose- the purpose of watching and waiting, if you get the drift.

I read somewhere that guys tend to choose the most instantaneous, explosive methods of suicide, like shooting themselves in the mouth or jumping under a roaring train. Instant gratification, if you know what I mean, no pain, no bother, boom, what’s your beef. Irreversible in every way, and there’s no turning back, which is the point. Ever seen a dog that bites something so hard the teeth remained stubbornly embedded in whatever it was even after the head was yanked away? Guys have a one track masculine mind and it shows.

Women, on the other hand, tend to go for the “softer’’ methods- overdosing, cutting wrists in the bathtub, the whole nine yards and the length of the great wall of China where melodrama is concerned. Slow ways that give time for someone to come save ‘em, because believe me, suicide- or attempting it, is more often than not, a cry for help, albeit an extreme one.

But it isn’t about killing myself, though heaven knows it’s not for lack of trying. I sometimes lie awake and wonder what it’d be like to go for someone’s throat just like that, slow and steady and soft and sweet.

Palpate the skin of her neck- warm, soft, pliable. I can almost hear the throbbing of blood, the whoosh whoosh of lymphatic fluid through the jugular vein and the lymphatic vessels respectively. Pause a moment to palpate the carotid artery, relishing the evenness of the carotid pulse because it ain’t gonna stay that way, to hell with the status quo in the next second.

Feel the sweat collect in the creases of your palms as you raise the knife, the blade rough and rugged. But it’s not a fear-sweat, there’s no nervous anticipation, only a greedy one.

One slash. Just the one, and it need not be violent, just quick, so quick that it surpasses the speed of sound because there’s nothing more than a whispery breeze and the hot trickle of satisfaction goes through you, settling in your belly like hot chocolate on a winter’s day. Perfection.

It spurts, because it’s arterial blood. There’s an annoying gurgling, though, from how the dissected vessels empty their contents into the mediastinium. An annoying crackling too- Hammond’s sign. Air hisses out from the wound- sure sign of a TBI, subcutaneous emphysema, probably transected the entire trachea but who cares. She’s gonna die before cyanosis even begins to set in.

Ignore the rasping and watch. Watch, and dip your hand into the blood that’s sprayed onto your face and hands. It’s not gunmetal metallic in taste, you know. It’s sweet. Thick, and not cloying. Almost like wine, and like all wines, it’s an acquired taste.

Dip your finger in.

Taste.

Repeat.

Feel for the chest. Ever so slightly left of the sternum. Feel it? The heartbeat. Fluttering? Slowing? Or maybe even the rhythmic disturbance of ventricular fibrillation?

There’s a reason why I never wanted to become a doctor. I don’t trust myself.

Iatrogenic damage is so stupidly easy.

Overdose of insulin.

Hyponatremia due to improper calculation of electrolyte enhancing drugs.

Writing morphine sulphate as magnesium sulphate.

Having a piggyback IV with both bags at the same level.

Operate on a person with CJD and then fail to sterilize the equipment.

Inject warfarin instead of heparin.

Fail to tip the head of the table downward when operating on the brain.

Fail to remove jewellery before an operation and use an electrocautery unit.

Reverse the paddles for defibrillation for a person without situs inversus.

Mix precipitating drugs in an I.V.

It can happen. So easy. So simple.

And so tempting.

Untitled

I’ve been far away for far too long, but I can’t even pretend to care so I’m not going to.

To cut a damn long story short, me, the so-called expert, flunked her A levels. Not on account of content, that is, but considering that I’m a poly private candidate, so everyone says, the format of answering is bound to be foreign to me because the first time I actually laid eyes on it was the day of the paper itself.

Honestly, who gives a damn?

Well, I do, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care.

I just wasted a heck load of money, but I don’t think that’s the point. It’s… well, there’s no gratification, and I guess I’m being hedonistic to fill that void, as stupid and one-dimensional as it sounds. It helps nothing and solves even less, but I’m not perfect, so sue me for being thus.

I’ve been drinking and cutting and smoking a crapload more than usual. Who cares, I’m of age anyway.

And yes, riddled with adolescent angst, but whoever says anything about it can go suck his own balls and choke on them.

Yes, I’m stuck up and self obsessed.

Yes, I’m a fucking whiny bitch who’s the reason why abortion should’ve been legalized.

Yes, I should learn from my parents and practice some form of birth control, but- suck it, you’re stuck with me, like it or not.

I’ll be back when I’m sane, because as you can see, provided you’re neither stupid nor stupid, I’m so not there now.

Alone with Insanity

You keep thinking that you can escape; that you can stop, or that you can change your lifestyle in this or that way and everything goes down fine and dandy the way you want it.

Clearly, you haven’t made an acquaintance with an eating disorder, and assuming you haven’t, you’re best advised not to even try to take a peek for yourself what she’s like, because of the many things she is (none of them what you expect, really), good at breaking charity she isn’t. I can assure you this.

Control.

You want to starve yourself back into that boyish ballet dancer’s body you had at eleven just so you’ll taste again a semblance of the days when you were little and he was with you, don’t you? It’s your mechanism- and what a horrible, one-dimensional, insert-derogatory-word-of-choice-here one it is- to regress, to capture a past that’s long gone down the lines of myth rather than history, to capture a past that you can’t put down like the fork you’re still holding even after the dishes are washed and the lights are out.

And so you keep at it.

It’s easy at first. Once you’ve taken the first step, got your butt off the couch and are out on the road once more, everything feels so free, for a few fleeting seconds as you run, pushing yourself through that virtual barrier and bursting forth like an unstoppable dragon.

You come home, still drunk on an adrenaline high, feeling so wonderful about yourself and you wonder why you haven’t done this sooner, because it feels so easy, so effortless… you’re so powerful, so supercharged and so strong, and it lasts; it’s real easy to turn up your nose at rice and beans after that because you don’t want to destroy that stunning masterpiece you’ve just come up with. Not that it’s much of a sacrifice because you aren’t even hungry, any more, and you fool yourself into thinking it’s gonna last.

It happens three hundred times and doesn’t stay but you think it will this time, never mind that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and hoping to get a different result somehow.

Then it crashes down on you and you realize how bad you hurt; your joints are aching from the countless reps you’ve tortured yourself with, your blisters have blisters on them and your socks are filled with blood, and every muscle hurts.

You can practically feel your bones irritably grinding against one another because they’re so worn down, and you’re acutely aware of how fast and fluttery your heart sounds. You tell yourself it’s normal, it’s all part and parcel of this game, because you fool yourself into thinking it’s still a game you’re in control of, but that little part in you is scared, so scared, and yet unable to reach out because once you do, the glass ceiling caves in and it’s you who gets caught.

You’re tired and bloody and crying, and hungry on top of it all, but there’s so much emotion involved in that sandwich of that slice of bread because it’s going to save you and kill you all at once by nourishing you then puffing you up from the inside.

Slowly, you devour it crumb by crumb, almost guilty for enjoying the sweetness, and once it’s over, far too quickly and slowly all at once, you start getting the shakes; you know you fouled up, and you want to run it off right away but your music player’s broken down and you can’t run till god knows when and that scares you good and proper because everything’s crumbling now.

So you start starving and subsisting on soy milk. Or start swimming, never mind how you look like a fat greedy overfed mole in that two piece blue suit. Or reach for that razor and cut a few times where it hurts most. Or make yourself puke over a toilet bowl. Or something. And in each one of them, I guarantee you that you wish each night that you won’t wake up again after lying down to sleep.

Assuming you can sleep, bone weary as you are because you’re all jazzed up from the caffeine and the anxiety and the nightmares that make you already-freaking out heart have a fit.

It’s just you and Ana/Mia/whatever combination of it at the end. The worst part is it’s not about food, but it is too. Life isn’t the party you want it to be, but you can’t bring yourself to dance all the same.

I am FUCKING mad right this moment. BaaaaH~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cutting~

When I was six I dropped a bowling ball on my big toe and broke it. Thinking about it now, I remember that it hurt, but I don't remember what it felt like. When I recall that incident with the bowling ball my toe doesn't start to hurt again. But that's the thing about physical pain, you can't remember it, and it doesn't come back when you think of it.

Emotional pain is different though, when you think of somehting that hurt you emotionally you can start to feel the same pain all over again. When the memory comes back, the pain comes back with it. You can try and forget about the things that hurt you but sometimes the memories come back anyway. Or sometimes the memory leaves you while the pain stays behind, and you are left with all this pain that you either can't identify or can't control.

When I self-injure, I'm just replacing that emotional pain with physical pain, pain that I can control, pain that I can identify, and pain that won't come back.

Self-injuring is hard, but not self-injuring is harder. It's not a question as to why I SI so much, but as to why I don't SI more- all things considered.