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.