Contemplations: The Look

How intriguing, that a momentary sultry glance can arouse one's deepest desires;

Which lay dormant in the darkest recesses of one's heart;

Which is bounded by an impossible number of chains and locks;

Which are guarded by an unwavering wall of rationalism and pessimism.

How absurd, that such fortifications crumble dismally in the face of a mere glance - a stark reminder that one cannot be ridden of what one never wished to be deprived of in the first place.

How futile it is, to wage a war against oneself.

"My will is not as strong as it used to be".

Contemplations: Emptiness

I am sitting in a chair in the midst of delightful company. The atmosphere is bubbly and warm -enchanting in its liveliness. The air is filled with laughter, like the taunting cackle of crows as piercing rain torrents on funeral mourners, 'parading in the wake of sad relations as their shoes filled up with water'. And indeed I sit here drenched in ethereal rain, mourning a non-existent death.

As I scan the elegantly decorated room, I find that I am immersed in a scene of joy. It is infectious, stretching its graceful arms in a welcoming gesture. But it distorts as it approaches my seat; my temporal disposition a blot of black ink on a canvas of rainbow colours. It lingers - it dances around me, approaching tantalisingly close, swimming on the hairs of my skin, flirting with my emotions, before dissipating like specks of golden dust caught in a gust of icy wind.

I can see beautiful women, teasing with their silk hair and piercing stares. I can see men steal glances, firing cupid's arrow with every turn of the head, with dismal precision. Yet notwithstanding astray arrows, I admire their courage and vigor and rue my want of such intent; my only arsenal an array of blunt arrow excuses.

I am sitting in a chair in the midst of a celebration of life, yet I sit here drenched in ethereal rain, mourning a non-existent death, notching a blunt arrow of an excuse onto a tired bow.

Moving to a location near you!

So in light of my lack of time to post, I have decided to collaborate with two fellow wankers and combine our efforts to form one blog. So all posts henceforth (by me) will be posted here:

http://bachelorcity.blogspot.com/

Quick Entry: Bad Timing

1:31PM; 1 hour late for a soccer match, parked adjacent to a curb. Busting.

1:33PM; staring at the meter and realising I do not have any coins. Still Busting. Call a number to pay via credit.

1:43PM; operator informs me that their system is malfunctioning. I start to unbuckle my belt to relieve the pressure on my bladder. Contemplating peeing behind a tree, but notions of criminal law begins flooding my head and I ultimately decide against it.

1:44PM; after pacing around, discovering, to my glee, that I have three dollars in my ashtray.

1:46PM; paid for parking ticket. A wave of relief - until my true dilemma hits me: I do not know where the nearest toilet is.

1:50PM; find a girl walking into the uni and screaming: "HEY! Do you know where the nearest toilet is?"

1:55PM; standing inside a library. Girl directs me to the toilet. I earnestly thank her.

2:00PM; "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

2:01PM; realising that the girl was absolutely gorgeous and all I could think about was my bursting bladder. Fuck me.

Hypothetical Situation I

Aquinas' refinement of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, considers docility (the acquisition of knowledge through others) as an integral constituent of the virtue of prudence. Vital to this notion is willingness to ask for advice, exercising the virtue of courage.

Personally, I recurrently stray from the mean. Rarely am I virtuous. At times I desire to seek advice and yet the courage to do so is lacking. I am hindered by an ethereal hand, pulling me back by the collar and that hand is indeed my own.

But for what I lack in courage, I make up for in guile. I obtain my advice through riddles and querying responses to 'hypothetical situations' (adapted to my personal circumstances no less) and so ultimately my advisor is none the wiser in regards to my inner secrets or motives.

And woe behold, a hypothetical situation?

I am walking down a mundane street, along a path of dull gray concrete. The weather is pleasant yet there is a distinctive and inexplicable unnerving ambiance. My journey is relatively unperturbed (imagine The Verve - Bittersweet Symphony) until I encounter an eccentric and unfamiliar store adjacent to a crossroads. On the display, behind the perfectly clear glass, is a vintage Gibson ES-339 in a beautiful sunburst finish. Price? "Inquire within". But why bother? It would be clearly too expensive for me and my lackluster guitar abilities would render me unworthy of such a fine instrument. Besides, I wouldn't have time to genuinely appreciate it.

But everyday henceforth, I will make the same journey, pass the same store and relive the same sentiments. With each successive day, I will slowly begin to believe that I do have the means to purchase this guitar; that I am deserving of this guitar, yet still I will not "inquire within".

At home, I will begin practicing profusely. The Gibson has reignited my passion for music. Inevitably however, my lack of improvement will spell the demise of my enthusiasm and eventually I will be convinced that I should give up on this instrument. Life goes on.

One day I will be dismayed to find that the guitar is sold. The tag will hang flippantly around its neck, taunting me with its very existence. What do I do then?

a) Empty my bank account, burst into the store, offer what I can. Fuck the considerations.

b) C'est la vie. I wasn't destined for this guitar anyway.

c) Continue practicing and find a similar guitar eventually.

d) Purchase a balaclava with the accumulated savings and roll the guy who bought it.

e) Make my own guitar out of pieces of Lego and hug it to sleep at night.

f) Have a cry.

Decisions, decisions.

Quick Entry: Photogenic (or not)

I don't remember when it was exactly that I began detesting the idea of having my photo taken. Direct a camera lens at me and I will instinctively shield my face as if a firearm was pointed at my nose ready to be fired point blank.

Those who are not photogenic will empathise with me. We lack the bullet-proof armor that would shield us from the rounds fired from the NIKON D-SLR at the nightclub or the camera phones of snap-crazy people.

Candid photos? Instant death.

I could never comprehend why there was a such a stark disparity between what is plain on the photographs and perceptions of myself through my own eyes. The same thought arises without fail each time I observe a picture of myself: "I distinctly don't remember being this ugly."

Yet why would the camera lie? It does not conspire to make certain people look like shit. It does not cunningly whisper to itself: "Oh look, here's that wanker guy again. Time to spread some turd on the lens to cover his face." It records what is there. So is that really me?

I hope not.

Note: I know, I know. I'm procrastinating. I'm half done with the play. It is now mid semester break, so I'll have some time to complete it.

Temptation

Temptation is a paradoxical notion in the sense that it is often associated with a desire that is undesirable. One's unwavering longing for something or someone may place one in a precarious position: does one succumb to temptation or is one staunch in one's resolution to avoid it?

You may argue that we only live once - you should enjoy your only chance at life. Why avoid the things that can potentially make you happy?

As my blog name would suggest, I am a thinker. In truth (despite my evident disdain towards 'dipshits') I envy those who do not have a tendency to stress their cranium with an assault of thoughts and considerations. I am forever wary of consequences; forever afraid of diving head first into the water. Uncertainty is the shackles that bind my hands and feet and I am eternally tripping over myself as a consequence.

Thus, I shirk from temptation. I am disciplined. I can tell myself that I can exist without such peripheral details in my life; that what I have now is all I need and all I ever need.

I am a miserable person indeed.

Thinking... Thinking... Thinking...

Recently I have observed that my spasmodic periods of insomnia coincide with times where I am burdened (perhaps this is the wrong word to use...) by a myriad of worries or woes. I think too much. Whenever I am faced with challenges or troubles, the clockwork in my brain begins to cycle as if urged by an unrelenting stimulant. Inevitably as the gears wear thin, it all comes to a standstill and I am left with a terrible feeling of uncertainty like a journeyman at a crossroads choosing between two ominous paths.

Clearly, I am suffering from insomnia this very moment.

Being renowned as a 'googling' imbecile, I decided to self-diagnose my condition. In the depths of the internet, I discovered that a possible cure was to indulge myself in the art of the 'Haiku'. A friend suggested I try masturbation as that would 'tire me out'. Ultimately, after much deliberation, I decided to get my hands dirty in poetry (not Vaseline).

Steer ones mind to thoughts.

Astray in contemplation

A capricious fool.

I should stick to my day job... but then again, I have none. On that note, I think the trick has worked. Good night.

Tolerance

If I were to assess various facets of my disposition and scribble down my shortcomings on a blank piece of paper, I am positive that 'intolerance of stupidity' would be highlighted, italicized, underlined and in bold.

I am not so much of a wanker to be condescending towards those with limited intellectual capacity. There are scruples inhibiting my condescension towards such people; after all I understand that the majority of people are not introverted nerds like myself. No. My prejudice is directed to those who would initiate unintelligible debates or those who cannot comprehend what I am attempting to convey, despite repeating myself multiple times, regressively degenerating the conversation to such lows, where our speech is analogous to two primitives grunting and clubbing each other with a gargantuan bone from the leg of a dinosaur.

And when faced with such situations, I am forced to employ all sources of self-control to avoid a volcanic eruption. In short, I am tempted to become a patronising bastard and my God, I feel like a heroin addict on cold turkey (not that I know how that feels).

Today, I was presented with a 'delightful' challenge. I sent an E-mail with an attached remittance advice. I truncated the filename by making an anagram of the company's name. The series of E-mails was as follows:

S.J: The invoice has been paid. Attached is the remittance advice: "Remittance.AJYDSPM.doc".

S.J: Apologies, the document is meant to read "AJYDMPS".

Representative: Our name is not AJYDMPS. It is 'Anderson Jamal and Yasutomi Digital and other Media Promotional Services'.

S.J: I understand, but this is just a filename. Your full registered name is used in the remittance advice. It is just cumbersome for me to put your full registered name as the document name, thus the anagram.

Representative: But AJYDMPS is not our registered name. We cannot use this.

S.J: (swearing at said representative, behind his monitor) As you wish. The document has been renamed thusly: "Remittance.AndersonJamalandYasutomiDigitalandotherMediaPromotionalServices.doc"

S.J jumps out of his seat and runs into a wall out of frustration.

Retard. You ruined my day.

I hate stupid people.

Have you encountered any stupid people and empathise with me? Or am I just a dickhead? I would love to know if I have genitals protruding from my forehead.

Time

Time is an elusive concept. The sand that trickles down the hour glass is forever in two minds; it does not know whether to quickly succumb to gravity and fall to become another particle of the past, or to delay the process and cling onto the present. It is cruel. It prefers the earth when we are elated. It favours the sky when we are in despair. It is omnipotent. We cannot escape its influence.

I am no exception.

As a prisoner confined within the indestructible walls of the tempered hour glass, I am perpetually endeavouring to catch the modicums of sand falling from the heavens and make futile attempts at casting them back from whence they came, only to delay the inevitable. Needless to say, this is an aimless endeavour. But I am convinced that we are all eternally fighting against the ticking hand of the clock, like Bart Simpson trying to reverse the flow of toilet water in that famous episode where he takes a trip to Down Under. Such is life.

In a nutshell, I won't be able to update this blog as frequently as I would like to given time constraints. But hey, made you think! ACT IV coming soon.

Mini Entry: Stigma

Urban dictionary defines 'stoner' as: "Someone who smokes cannabis often" and then goes on to provide the example: "Darn, those stoners are lucky they got high before seeing Lord of the Rings". I was one of those lucky stoners. The colours were amazing. Frodo is my homeboy.

Kidding.

Perhaps it is my nonchalant attitude towards the use of this 'herb' (chemical-infected herb, these days) that has led to my stigma of always appearing 'stoned'. Perhaps it is the other more obvious indicators, such as my gaunt appearance, droopy eyes, slurred speech, delayed reaction and tendency to fall into momentary lapses of consciousness and stare blankly at empty space with my mouth slightly ajar.

Regardless of the reason, the bottom line is, I do not inhale, inject, absorb, bathe in or have intimate relations with any illicit drug.

It was therefore to my dismay to discover that my infamous stoned countenance had escalated to new heights. I had descended from 'stoned guy' to 'stoner'. I was instantly reminded of the episode of Pokemon where Ash desired to use the 'thunderstone' on Pikachu to have him evolve to Raichu. Nobody wanted Pikachu to evolve. I did not want to evolve from a druggo-look-a-like to a druggo.

The revelation occurred in a conversation with a friend whilst walking to grab lunch:

A.G: Sunny, I want to ask you something. Do you take the pill?

S.J: Take the pill? Well I'm taking Roaccutane at the moment...

A.G: I meant.. Nevermind. Do you smoke pot?

S.J: Wait what? No, I don't smoke pot. Why would you think that?

A.G: Oh good. I just wanted to confirm. Someone told me you full did drugs. Like I was talking to someone and they said you smoke pot and then someone else said "Yeah! Didn't you know? He's a full druggo". But I was like, Sunny? No way!

S.J: What the fuck? I've never done drugs in my life. Seriously.

A.G: But like you know, I thought the first time I met you, I was like, oh my God, this guy is a total junky. 'Cause of your face and all.

S.J: Thanks.

So it's official. People think I'm a drugged up maniac. I'll just go and inhale some happy gas to forget my woes.

Kidding.

The F2 Project: The Results II & Conclusion

Two weeks have passed since my amazing metamorphosis from a 'dull rock' to a 'sparkling gem'. By following the teachings of 'Learn to get ripped in 4 weeks as seen on CNN' and the Queer Eye crew, I had successfully completed the crux of what the experiment set out to achieve, but one vital element remained: to test the effectiveness of the results.

As if to answer my prayers, I was invited to a dinner two nights ago by a good friend, where the gender ratio was ridiculously bias in my favour. As I entered the premises (fashionably late, of course) I was feeling optimistic; I was surrounded by a myriad of gorgeous women and I was feeling sexy.

The Targets.

The gameplan was simple: sit in a shady corner of the room, exhuberate my sexiness and have the girls gravitate towards me. I figured that my transformation provided me with powers only attainable by a minute proportion of men: chick magnetism. My elusive demeanour would seal the deal.

The night wore on and I failed to make any advances in my pursuit to attract the opposite sex. My magnetic field was malfunctioning. My confidence was draining as fast as the cocktails held delicately by the quasi-sober guests.The lights seemed to dim to a wan glow, reflecting my devastation.

At this point, I was assailed with a plethora of doubts. Was I not good enough? Am I being perceived as an anti-social sodomite? Is my fly undone? I was dizzied with these contemplations. One thing remained certain however; I was failing in my endeavours. My confidence had emaciated to infinitesimal proportions, so much so that I could not muster the courage to reverse my tactics and to make the approach myself. By the end of the night, I had only succeeded in attracting men.

Two arms wrapped around... Men.

As I glanced across the room, I saw a confident and attractive man conversing with numerous beautiful ladies.

The pimp showing how it's done.

Damn. Guess I'll go back to touching myself in the mirror.

Conclusion: Aesthetics do play a vital role in attracting the opposite sex, but if you are lacking in confidence or do not possess/exhibit an agreeable personality, then you can forget about scoring.

Disclaimer: This experiment is completely fictional (duh). My physique change actually took a year, and my skin is still terrible.

Shout out to all the girls and guys in the photos who gave me permission to use their photos. I love you guys. And no, I don't really touch myself in the mirror. Much.

Late Night Conversations: Act III

Act III: The Truth

SCENE

A confined basement in CADOR’s house. The modest room is dimly lit by pale fluorescent lights, revealing gray plastered walls and a lifeless concrete floor. Barred rectangular windows line the ceiling. A moth circles a buzzing halogen lamp hanging precariously in the corner of the basement. The incessant sound of dripping water can be faintly heard.

WALT, JOHN, CALVIN and CLANCY are seated in rusty steel chairs situated in the centre of the basement. They don novel helmet-like contraptions and are linked by a multitude of black electrical wires. All are clothed in white. CADOR stands beside WALT tweaking an electrical device strapped to his arm.

Walt (nervously): Uhh… Hey Cador… What exactly are these things that you’re putting on our arms?

Cador: Don’t worry bro. Trust me.

John (squirming in his seat and adjusting his helmet): See that’s the thing Cador. We don’t trust you. What else do you have for us? Anal probes?

Cador (walking over to John and adjusting his helmet): Shut up faggot. It’s lie detecting equipment; all part of the experiment.

Clancy: Lie detecting equipment? Dude. It looks like a bunch of kitchen utensils and some cheap wires. I’m wearing a freaking metal bowl on my head. (Taps his head).

CADOR withdraws a device from his pocket as he walks towards the halogen lamp, progressively engulfed by the shadows. His face remains ominously illuminated by the wan light emanating from the lamp.

Calvin: What’s that?

Cador: This (brandishes the device) is what tells me if you’re lying.

Clancy: What are we being asked?

Cador (with a mischievous grin spread across his face): That’s up to me.

Walt (frowning): This is not going to be good…

Cador: Alright boys, this is how it’s going to happen. I’ll ask each of you a question in turn and you will answer truthfully. If you don’t, I will know and you will get shocked. If you do –

John (suddenly sitting up): Hey hold up. We get shocked? What the fuck?

CADOR presses a button on his device enthusiastically. JOHN convulses violently, his face aghast.

John (angrily): Bro what the fuck? I didn’t even say anything. Why did you shock me for?

Cador: Test run mate. (Laughs heartily) Look, it’s all part of the psychology aspect of the experiment. Give it a chance.

Walt (in an irritated tone): You shouldn’t shock him like that man. It’s wrong.

Clancy: We should just get this over and done with guys. He needs our help for his assignment. Just start Cador.

John: I still think this is fucked. Is that shit even safe?

Cador (ignoring JOHN): First question is for Walt.

Walt: Can Calvin go first? I think Calvin wants to go first.

Calvin (turning his head sharply towards WALT): No way man! He said you first!

Cador: Whatever bro. Calvin it is. First question: (pauses briefly as if in contemplation) how did you feel after that party the other day? I’m talking about where we fucked up.

The sound of dripping water intensifies.

Calvin (with a look of conviction): Nothing.

CADOR presses a button on his device and CALVIN convulses.

Calvin: I wasn’t lying man!

Clancy: Bullshit you felt nothing. Tell the truth.

Calvin (nervously laughing): Seriously guys. It was nothing.

The fluorescent lights flicker momentarily. CADOR presses a button on his device and CALVIN begins to convulse again.

John: Dude, I think Calvin’s going to say the same thing however many times you press that button. At this rate he’s going to turn into crispy BBQ chicken.

Cador: Fine, answer this instead: what is the biggest thing you regret of late?

CALVIN tilts his head and glances upwards towards the ceiling, deliberating.

Calvin (after a while): Shaving my pubes. It gets so itchy afterwards. (Laughs nervously).

Silence fills the room. JOHN, WALT and CLANCY shift uncomfortably in their seats, their faces bearing incredulous expressions. The lights flicker.

Cador (clearing his throat): Bro, that’s fucking chat. I didn’t want to know that...

Clancy: Dude, none of us wanted to know that.

Calvin: Isn’t it normal to -

Walt: Next question please?

Cador: Yeah, good idea Walt. You’re next.

Walt (sighing): Ah fuck… I think Clancy wants to –

Clancy: That only works once man.

Cador: Walt. Your question is: who are your last four crushes?

The sound of dripping water intensifies.

Walt: Can we skip this question please? I don’t have any crushes.

CADOR presses a button on his device. WALT convulses maniacally.

Cador: Lie.

Walt (stuttering): Fine! Just don’t press that button again. (Lapses briefly) Genevieve, Krystal, Zara and Helen.

The fluorescent lights flicker sporadically.

John: Genevieve? Krystal? Are you sure you didn’t just pick the last few girls you talked to? I mean, they seem to be girls that we have met recently.

Cador: Bro, do you really like Genevieve? Because you know I can hook you up.

Walt. No…

John: So you lied.

Walt: No… I mean –

Clancy: Wait, hold up. Helen? Didn’t she like you as well? And Zara? What the fuck man? Since when?

Walt(stuttering): I-I.. Look I -

Calvin: Hey I think we should move on since Walt answered his question.

Cador: Yeah bro. I don’t think he was lying.

Clancy (in resignation): Fine.

Cador: This one’s for you then Clancy. What was your last fantasy about a girl? Describe it.

Clancy (confidently): Making out with Lillian.

John: Dude, that’s pretty soft. Are you sure that’s the truth?

Clancy: What did you expect? A wet dream?

John: Yeah.

Calvin: Who’s Lillian?

Clancy: A girl who sat in front of me in class last semester.

Walt: Did you ask her out?

Clancy: Nah. Didn’t have the balls.

John: Don’t worry man. Remember me and Torts girl? Same deal. Next semester man, next semester.

Walt: Who’s Torts girl?

John: Long Story. Anyway, I still don’t believe you only dreamed about spooning her Clancy. So PG.

Cador (laughing): I believe – I mean the machine says he’s telling the truth bro.

John: That’s such a load of bull. What an anti-climax.

Cador: We’ll see what you got then bro. Your question: you said you liked Ophelia. Why don’t you ask her out?

John (scratching his head): Don’t know. Don’t want to be in a relationship I guess?

The lights black out.

John: Does this mean I win and that we can finally bugger off?

The lights turn back on. CADOR presses a button and JOHN convulses.

Cador: No. And you were lying.

John (scratching his head): Look… (Observes the moth succumbing to temptation and flying directly into the halogen light, disintegrating in the process and leaving a trail of smoke and ash)… I’m not cut out to be boyfriend material at the moment. I wouldn’t treat her right and I couldn’t stand that. And even if I wanted to dude, it’d be tough game.

Walt: Tough game? You’re a pimp man.

John (looking askance at WALT): Funny. Have you seen me lately? I look like a shriveled peanut; with measles.

Calvin: I don’t think it makes much of a difference. Honestly.

Cador: Yeah bro.

John (unconvinced): Whatever guys. So are we done? We’ve all answered your stupid questions Cador. Can I get this fucked up bucket off my head now?

Clancy: Yeah, I want out man. You owe us big time for helping you with this experiment.

Cador (with a confused expression): Experiment?

Walt: Your psychology experiment.

Cador: Oh. About that boys… (Laughs maniacally) Truth is there is no experiment. I just set this up so you guys would spill. I thought I’d pull one over you boys. You guys are fucking brilliant.

John, Walt, Calvin and Clancy (rising out of their seats and looking at each other): WHAT?

Light filters into the room through the barred windows and casts shadows which merge with those of JOHN, WALT, CALVIN and CLANCY as if ensnaring the four in a prison cell. The new source of light splits the four’s shadows into two and illuminates the basement, revealing a larger compartment than was originally perceived.

CADOR begins to run, leaving trails of laughter as the others pursue, bellowing angry jeers.

ACT DROP

Chinese New Year

Procrastination is a word used so commonly that its traditional definition as a verb indicating a delay in action has naturally transmuted to a verb indicating the process of being a lazy fucker in general. I am a procrastinator - I am a lazy fucker, thus my lack of posts and my decision to wish everyone a wonderful Chinese new year one minute before the stroke of midnight (after which new year day would have passed). HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR!

I am slowly making progress on ACT III of 'Late Night Conversations', so rest assured, I have not given up on that project. In the meantime, the following images are of 'Mah Jong's' (mother Jong's) wonderful NYE dishes for all to salivate over. (Note that we are a family of four)

Eight dishes for good fortune.

Abalone and jellyfish salad.

Steamed fish in soy, and spring onions.

Sea Cucumber with 'moss' and bamboo shoots.

Dried oysters with 'moss' and cabbage.

Other dishes were:

- Snow peas cooked with prawns

- Roast duck & roast pork

- Chicken

- Prawn & pork meatballs

- Shark-fin & fish soup

The F2 Project: The Results

In truth, I began this project a week ago, and so I already have some sexy results to show you all. The following is a recount of my arduous week of hard work:

The Physique

I began my venture into the world of sexy herculean bodies by attempting to research methods which would allow me to achieve a state of muscular 'awesomeness'. To my luck, I stumbled upon an advertisement whilst searching for 'hot male bodies' (my God the internet is dirty) that boasted success stories, where fat lards "got ripped in four weeks". You could only imagine my glee.

After vehemently clicking on the ad, I was introduced to a plethora of wisdom; in my hands lay the ancient secrets of 'quick-time body building'. I put it to the test.

For a week, I stuck to a strict diet of eating protein powder and nothing else. I am not mistaken when I write 'eating' protein powder. I figured that water was a waste of space.

Do not be swayed by the packaging. It is by no means a biochemical weapon.

In addition to replacing all foods with protein powder, I decided that soy milk would be my sole source of hydration, due to its high protein content.

In adherence to the steps suggested on the webpage, I also adopted an intense exercise regime involving heavy weights. Having observed others undertake similar initiatives to improve their physique, I concluded that bicep curls and bench presses were the only two exercises I needed for my regime. I spent 10 hours of every day of the week in the gym, doing 1000 sets of these exercises. The results are breathtaking.

Before:

After: (one week later)

I was so pleased with my results, that I spent the entire afternoon touching myself in front of the mirror.

The Fashion

This facet of my experiment was particularly difficult. Being 'fashionable' is very subjective. To a hobo, a potato sack may be considered rather trendy. To others, it is deplorable. In light of this, I decided to consult the masters of fashion, whose opinion mattered most:

The Fab Five took me on a ride to Oxford Street where I had a long sweaty day of shopping. After successfully transforming my sense of fashion, we celebrated at a local gay club. I expected a happy time but instead found myself sandwiched between two scantily dressed men for the night. I woke up the next morning with a vague recollection of the previous nights activities, dressed in a Tarzan costume. Fuck me dead.

Before:

After:

Grooming

This area of my appearance was rather simple to improve. A nice haircut, a whole body wax session and some plastic/laser surgery to rid my face of acne and scars was all it took to achieve the status of grooming God.

Before:

After:

Next post: More results, and the conclusion!

Disclaimer: These methods do not actually work. DO NOT try this at home kids.

The F2 Project

As a wanker, I feel that I do not have to justify my musings. That is not to say of course, that my posts are lacking thoughtful judgement or tact, but rather I deem it unnecessary to please those with opinions contrary to my own. Be that as it may, I note that it is quite unjust to generalise people in regards to superficiality and so to please the masses, I have co-devised (See http://travelten.blogspot.com) a social experiment to prove that my rants do in fact hold some water.*

The F2 Project

Hypothesis: Aesthetics are pivotal in successfully approaching the opposite sex when one has the intention of expressing one's affections.

Method:

1. Observe success rates of current condition.

2. Improve:

a) Physique

b) Fashion sense

c) Grooming (skin condition, hair etc.)

3. Observe success rates of altered condition.

4. Compare results.

Control: (these pictures are approximately two years old)

Next entry: The results

*Please note: I know by writing this I'm being hypocritical, but it is for the sake of humour and to help a friend. It is meant to be ironic. Don't worry, I haven't succumbed to the dark side. I hope you guys know me well enough to comprehend the message I am trying to convey. The hypothesis will be proven incorrect. Also, the rest of the play is coming for those of you that have been requesting it. The agenda for the next act is a bit sensitive and personal, so I'm thinking of clever ways to make it conceited.

The Leech

The leech is an interesting creature. It is despised among humans for its association with hematophagy (though in truth, not all leeches are hematophagous) and as we humans are so opposed to the spilling of our own blood (though our history might suggest otherwise), our opinion of the creature is particularly severe. Armed with a notorious anterior ‘sucker’, the leech slyly attaches itself onto a host body and secretes anesthetic to hide its presence: the leech is not dim – it knows how to make a subtle approach.

It is often said that we ‘live and learn’. If that hackneyed phrase be the case, then I am convinced that many people live as leeches. If our faces were but portraits which veiled our inner dispositions, I am certain that many would have the formless head of a leech squirming behind their smiling canvas. Despite the surreal nature of this notion, I feel as though I have dispelled the illusion surrounding certain ‘acquaintances’ only to be dismayed by what lay beneath the front of friendship.

There is nothing more irritating than to realize that you are resource: a mere tool that is used at the discretion of another. You foolishly consider a person as a friend, but this consideration is not mutual – their perception of friendship is a guise to maintain the link between said resource and themselves. They seek you when they need you, but your existence to them is as insignificant as any passing stranger on a busy urban street. You are to them like a prostitute is to a sex deprived man. They exploit your acquiescent nature.

At risk of exuberating arrogance and vanity, I will proclaim that I am a paradigm of a resource who is probably too agreeable for his own good. To my consternation, I have as of late discovered that I have ‘friends’ who communicate with me solely with the purpose of obtaining something in return (for instance, university notes). It is difficult to convey the extent of my disappointment in these people.

“How do you deal with leeches then?” you may ask. According to Wikipedia, you may remove them by burning them off with an open flame or splashing them with acidic liquids. I may resort to these methods when my sanity begins to disintegrate (probably due to these said leeches).

Before I end this post, I must address the injustice that I have committed in dishonouring the leech by juxtaposing it with the various actions of people. First, the leech does not indulge in gluttony, which is more than what can be said for its ‘human counterpart’ (when they ask for ‘one thing’, they usually end up asking for everything). Secondly, as previously noted, the leech is subtle in its feeding. The human leech is often blatant in procuring its needs from established resources. To illustrate:

Wanker Blog Guy: “Hey! How are you?”

Friend: “Hi Mr Wanker Blog guy! Remember to send me your notes, because I have a test in three days. Oh silly me, that’s the same test you’re doing! Anyway I need to go now. TTYL”

Wanker Blog Guy: “OMG ANSWER MY QUESTION YOU FUCKING DICKHEAD. GO DIE IN A PIT. A PIT FULL OF TURD.”*

*This part never happens. Before realizing that I was a tool in both the literal and figurative sense, I used to comply with these requests and arguably, I still do.

In conclusion, leeches are awesome, but not human leeches. You guys suck (pun intended).

She is Too Good for Him

As an astute observer of the relationship game (see my first post), I have frequently encountered the phrase: “you are too good for him,” used in trivial and wearisome conversations between women, concerning the affections of a man whose sentiments are more than often purely honest. Granted, on the odd occasion (perhaps I am giving my sex too much credit here, but nevertheless...), the man is indeed despicable and a degenerate, whose advances are tainted with questionable agendas.

After musing over this substantially, I have taken the liberty of constructing a list of 10 signs which would indicate that a woman is too good for a man (assuming the woman does not possess these same attributes); I base these signs upon foundations of personal insight and knowledge obtained from various ‘enlightening’ conversations with the opposite sex. They are as follows:

1. He is a criminal and has a serious indictable offence under his criminal record

2. He has no direction in life

3. He is a notorious womanizer (and is therefore probably infected with chlamydia, syphilis, genital warts or other STI's)

4. He is a stout believer in archaic patriarchal ideals

5. He possesses disgusting habits

6. He has a twisted sense of morals and ethics

7. He is already married

8. He is a racist

9. He has anger issues and is prone to violence

10. He is too ugly

The following is an example of how to erect a checklist and effectively utilize my advice in a practical sense:

Disclaimer: This post is a response to comments made by 'certain' shallow people. I am not trying to say that all girls are shallow, nor am I giving earnest advice. Oh please don't take my advice.

And once again, some music:

"I don't want to talk to you anymore,
I'm afraid of what I might say.
I bite my tongue, every time you come around,
'Cos blood in my mouth beats,
Blood on the ground"

... To end, I will 'high five to better judgment' because 'by saying less today, I will gain more". This is my last bitter post on this subject/event. (Until of course someone stirs my pot again)

Late Night Conversations: Act II

ACT II: Winging It

Part I: Prologue

SCENE

A starry evening on a suburban street, lit by a row of faintly glowing lampposts. A tall wooden fence lines a grey walkway with overhanging luscious vegetation. In the distance, chirping crickets can be heard disrupting an otherwise apprehensive silence.

CALVIN, CADOR, JOHN and CLANCY stand behind the fence; the sound of closing car doors can be heard. Only their faces can be seen, lit by an eerie glow emanating from a nearby lamppost but shrouded by the overgrowth. There is a rustling of plastic bags followed by a loud thud that echoes through the night.

John (looking aghast at CADOR): Dude. Those speakers are massive. They look like they weigh a ton.

Cador: Bro, they’re fucking heavy, but they’re pretty ace speakers.

Clancy (sarcastically): So ace you don’t take them out to parties anymore?

Cador: I’m trying to change my image bro. What did you bring?

Clancy: Oranges.

John: You’re joking right? (The sound of a rustling plastic bag can be heard as he grabs the oranges off CLANCY.) Who brings oranges to a party? These are over-ripe as hell man. They’re going to be bitter.

Clancy: What? (The sound of a rustling plastic bag can be heard as he snatches the oranges back off JOHN. He looks into the bag and repeatedly sniffs.) Fuck, I think you’re right… What’s wrong with bringing oranges anyway? Better than bringing a shitty camera. At least you can eat oranges.

John: Every party needs a camera man. (Takes out a large camera and takes a picture of CALVIN. The flash is blinding. Looks down and chuckles.)

Calvin: Dude, delete that.

John (laughing heartily): Fat chance.

CALVIN tries to reach for the camera but JOHN quickly withdraws it.

John (with a mischievous grin): This is going on facebook.

CALVIN sighs.

Cador: Ey Calvin, did you end up bringing twister?

Calvin: Yeah man, found it on the bottom of my drawer. I haven’t taken it out since that last time when I broke my rib playing it.

Clancy: How do you break your rib playing twister? That’s stupid.

Calvin: Some fat bitch landed on me.

There is a momentary silence. A strong breeze rushes through the trees, wailing as if in utter despair. The light from the lamp post flickers briefly.

Clancy (smiling suggestively at CALVIN): So Calvin. What’s the plan for tonight? Talk her up? Get her number?

John: Yeah dude, what’s the plan? You have to talk to her. It’s imperative.

Cador: Bro, I swear, if you don’t talk to her tonight, I’m going to smack you a new one.

Calvin (waving around his box of twister playfully and avoiding eye contact): I’m still not one hundred percent convinced that she likes me man.

John: It doesn’t matter if it’s not one hundred percent. You just need her to be interested in you to some degree. Besides, we’ve already established that the interest meter is pretty damn high. Fuck, I’d be stoked if someone had one percent interest in me.

Calvin (dropping his box of twister and bending over to pick it up): Fine, I’ll talk to her.

JOHN moves towards CALVIN and moments later, CALVIN howls in pain.

Calvin (angrily): Why did you sack whack me man? That fucking hurt. I’m wearing fucking skinnies.

John (laughing): Good to know you got some balls. You’re going to need them.

Clancy: Hey guys, I think we better get going to this party.

Cador: Yeah man, we’re pretty darn late.

CADOR, JOHN and CLANCY begin walking off. CALVIN remains, his head lowered, dejected. He takes a deep breath, lifts his head, but in doing so, drops his box of Twister. He swiftly bends over to pick it up, and scurries to join the others.

Part II: The Aftermath

SCENE

It is pitch black and silent. Spotlights shine on JOHN, CALVIN, CLANCY and CADOR, lifelessly slumped on dull wooden chairs in a neat file.

Cador: We fucked up bro.

Calvin: Don’t worry guys. You tried your best. That’s all I care about. I’m not disappointed. Really.

John (sighing): Nah man, I fucked up big time. I accidentally told everyone that you liked her man. Remember? When the word ‘love’ came up for that stupid word game, I was like, ‘Oh! Calvin feels this for her’. Fuck I’m stupid.

Clancy (with a dejected laugh): That was pretty funny though, man.

Cador: Bro, I really thought we had it when we were outside watching you twirl those fire things Clancy. I swear Calvin was about to talk to her.

Clancy: Sorry guys that was my bad. I didn’t mean to send a burning piece of debris at her head. That was fucking embarrassing.

Calvin (looking down): As I said guys, don’t worry about it. I really don’t mind. I didn’t speak up in the end.

John: Man, if things just could have been different.

The spotlights dim.

Part III: An Alternate World

SCENE

A grand room in Catherine’s apartment. Myriads of people are gathered in clusters, their voices forming a chorus of chatter, like an incessant static drone, harmonizing with the introduction of ‘My Love’ by Justin Timberlake, that can be faintly heard in the distance. The room is clean, well-lit and vibrant.

CADOR, immaculately dressed and perfectly postured, with an air of arrogance, can be seen in the background conversing with an elegant woman. JOHN, CLANCY and CALVIN, are in the foreground, similarly exquisite, conversing with each other, as a flock of ladies look upon them with approbation.

Clancy: Cador seems to be doing a good job over there.

Calvin: I hope he doesn’t over exaggerate.

John: Don’t be so negative Calvin. He doesn’t need to over exaggerate. Look at those girls over there. (Slightly tilts his head in the direction of the ladies.) They’re all over you. If you have confidence, you can get anyone you want.

Calvin (casting an inquiring look at Cador): I wonder what he’s saying…

CADOR walks over to the trio with a confident strut and a triumphant grin spread across his face.

Cador: Guys, we’re in. She reckons you’re a superhero now Calvin. If she asks, you saved some kid from getting run over the other day.

Clancy: Dude, what the fuck?

Clancy(excitedly): Whoa man… this is so happening.

John: You’re up Calvin.

Calvin: Alright guys, I’m going in.

CALVIN walks assertively towards the elegant lady, taps her on the shoulder and begins to engage in a conversation.

Cador: Bro I think he’s doing it. I think he’s actually doing it.

John (laughing): Fuck. What a beast.

Clancy: Guys, I’m happy for Calvin and all, but we’re wasting an opportunity here. (Turns to face the group of girls)

John: I don’t get it.

Clancy: Those girls over there are pretty much begging for us to come over. I’m going. (Walks briskly towards the girls).

Cador and John together: Hey wait up man!

CADOR and JOHN follow CLANCY.

Part IV: What Really Happened

SCENE

A claustrophobic room in Catherine’s apartment. People are scarce and scattered, their voices dissonant with a slightly distorted and sporadically skipping introduction of ‘My Love’ by Justin Timberlake that can be faintly heard in the distance. The room is cluttered, dimly lit and bleak.

CADOR, JOHN, CALVIN and CLANCY are huddled in a dark corner of the room. They are plainly dressed, hunched and wear austere expressions. CALVIN is tightly clutching his box of twister. In the background is an elegant lady, surrounded by a cluster of her friends. A booming voice proclaims: “What really happened.”

Cador: Calvin bro, you haven’t spoken to her all night. It’s now or never. Man up.

John: Dude, don’t worry about it. Just talk to her and get to know her.

Clancy: Don’t be a wuss. Just go.

Calvin(frustratingly): You don’t think I want to guys? It’s just… hard.

John: Dude seriously. She’s over there having a chat. Just approach her. It’s not that hard.

Calvin: I-I-I… I can’t do it man. (Sighs.) Can we just go play Twister?

Cador: Bro, if you’re not going to do it, then I’ll do it for you.

CALVIN stares at the ground in silence. JOHN sighs with a tone of resignation.

John: Come on Calvin. Let’s play Twister. Let’s go Clancy.

JOHN, CALVIN and Clancy exit.

CADOR slowly walks towards the elegant lady. As he approaches, her friends disperse.

Cador: Hey…

The Light dims and all are silent; only the outlines of CADOR and the lady can be seen. The Lady shakes her head and walks away whilst CADOR remains, his head hanging low and lifeless.

ACT DROP

And a little music to end the post: ...Off by Heart by City and Colour

Lyrics:

The stars are aligned,
But they don't align for us
Excuse me for I am the ocean
And I will starve for you
Will You Know How To Stay Brave?
Such Fragile moments we share
You Are My Every Thing
And Even With Nothing To Say