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