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!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 16, 2010
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…
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…
Friday, April 9, 2010
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。
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。
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 5, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
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......
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......
Friday, April 2, 2010
‘’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.
“…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.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
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.
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.
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