Looking at the chronological gap between this post and the one below, one might suspect that I’m undoubtedly exceedingly different from the version of myself who complained about girls in dresses the size of a shoelace. Au contraire. Apart from a few regrettable nights that have taught me the importance of water-proof pants and an accent similar to that of Liam Gallagher’s, I haven’t changed a bit; particularly in the ‘I haven’t gotten laid’ department. But then again, that’s all too familiar to you.
What I can tell you, however, is that these eighteen months have taught me one absolutely certainty in life – Mexicans are crazy sods. Don’t get me wrong. Given the opportunity, I’d gladly watch re-runs of Looney Tunes’ Speedy Gonzales. But there’s something about Mexican alcoholic beverages that will get you red-faced and delirious. Literally.
Incidentally, that shot glass marked the end of my stint as a writer– six months filled with countless hours seated behind a desk, lunch runs and needless tobacco breaks. They say that an internship gives you an insight into the field of your interest and ultimately helps you decide if you want to do it for the rest of your life. Personally, I find it a trifle disheartening considering that my persistent efforts would have been far more appreciated if I were a monotonous vagrant who had a personality similar to that of a carrot. But I digress.
Self-condescending thoughts like these always give me a slight case of the heebie-jeebies. I mean, I’m terrified of the constant ‘what if’ lurking just around the corner. A friend asked himself recently – ‘Where do I see myself in ten years?’ He envisioned himself owning a terrace in the suburbs and putting food on the table for his dog, cat and himself by working as a writer or an anchorman.
Personally, I couldn’t possible fathom being the person I am today eighteen months ago. Granted, I admitted I’m still the very same innocent, bespectacled dweeb with a virgin’s glow. But these eighteen months have given me a whole truckload of lessons, experiences and stories to tell.
So where do I see myself in ten years? There’s no way of telling. All I can do is learn from what I’ve been through and take it as it comes. As for now, I’ll be sure to steer clear of Mexican alcohol and stock up on a pair or two of water-proof pants.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.
If Garfield had a worst enemy, I reckon he’d be me. Unlike that furry feline, I love Mondays and most especially this one. I don’t mean to go all secondary school on you but today marks the end of last week – the March school holiday. And boy, am I glad. You see, in the last seven days, school children have clubbed and partied more than Michael Jackson did in a kindergarten and Elton John in the gents combined.
Even though my friends and I already made plans to go clubbing on Tuesday, I was initially reluctant. Thing is I hate to get drunk and when I try to dance soberly, the crowd throw me a kind of ‘what are you?’ look and rush off to make a desperate call to the Singapore Zoo to discuss my recapture.
‘But all of us are going to be there,’ my friend pleaded.
‘I know but it’s an underage party.’
‘Indeed it is. Lots of young, naïve girls all scantily dressed.’
‘I see. What time are we meeting then?’
Once I handed over close to half of my entire wallet in exchange for an entry stamp and a coke coupon, it became evident that something was amiss – my personal space. We were herded like cattle and, if you listened hard enough, you’d hear the occasional ‘moo’ from someone in the crowd. And after what felt like a year of my life, we managed to find a spot on the dance floor. Many of them looked just about old enough to watch the Teletubbies and some even danced like them, which is most disconcerting, I thought Jeevan was a one-off.
Just where do these people go during the day? Like vampires, they prowl the dance floors at night looking for female victims and, my god, there was no shortage of eager sacrifices that night all in dresses the size of a handkerchief.
Clearly, there weren’t enough good-looking guys to go around. This fact became painfully obvious when a rather tipsy, underage girl grabbed my ass and gave me a look usually reserved for people in brothels. Now, I’m not going to kid myself but people have remarked that I resemble Tyler Durden played by Brad Pitt – albeit after the fatal shot to his head. Let’s just say the night ended with me running into a cab and crashing at Paul’s place because I was too afraid to sleep alone in the dark.
The big mystery to all of this is, why in the first place are people organizing underage parties to draw these kids out of school and into handkerchieves? Do their parents know about what their kids are doing at night? Because if they do, I suppose a quick call to the Singapore Zoo would help.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.
My disturbed self was clearly unwell. I mean, what better way to kick off the start of my two-month vacation than to lose a hundred and twenty dollars. Attempting to disprove the theory that Chinese people can’t gamble, I, unsurprisingly disgraced my race. But what can I say, it’s not so much winning money but rather the thrill of playing that I willingly embarrass myself. You see, as soon as you gather cards into your hand, you’d feel confident, alive and focused. And I love that moment – the moment when my world shrinks to a pool of light and nothing else matters but the clack of chips, whispers, snap of cards and the gentle clink of beer bottles. Outside, the world would go about its business but everything there depends on the flip of a card and the intensity in my head. Poker isn’t a game; it’s a soap drama, man against fate. Never crow, never whine, just deal with it.
As much as I hate to admit it, Singaporeans in general don’t see gambling the way I do. And the upcoming integrated resorts won’t help matters. Forget the fancy hotels, snazzy water parks and titillating lounge singers, the much anticipated integrated resorts are just casinos to most Singaporeans. Or perhaps a little less on the nose, they are simply entertainment areas that provide ‘games of chance’. But don’t go there expecting a quiet game of monopoly.
I’m not addicted to gambling and I don’t begrudge people who are. The sad truth is the government made the right decision to build these integrated resorts simply because there is no shortage of insane Singaporeans rushing in to fritter away their life savings on the roulette wheel – the very same people who do it every week queuing at the Singapore Pools. This proves that Singaporeans will never stop playing ‘games of chance’ so the government might as well cash in on this. After all, Chinese people can’t gamble, can they?
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.
To quote a particular movie that has had a significant influence in my life, ‘I want that feeling – that feeling that comes over a man when he gets exactly what he desires.’ Thing is I don’t even know what I desire anymore; it seems my pilot light went out. I was so comfortable with where I was but I’m not so sure how comfortable I am with where I am now.
They say that once in your life you wake up, look in the mirror and ask yourself, ‘What’s the point?’ Questions like that would kill you. Take me for example; I’m someone living in his own fantasy. And now, I’ve been faced with a rather strange reality – that I have to wake up. It’s a big fucking world out there. It’s messy. It’s chaotic and it’s never the thing I’d expect. But I can’t let that turn me into someone I’m not. Especially when it comes to the people I love.’
I suppose it’s a trifle out of character on my part to have thoughts like these. After all, I am someone who seems rather loopy and nonchalant about most things. But in stark contrast, I guess I’m beginning to change and it’s about time, if I might add. I have to grow up as much as I hate to admit it.
I sometimes walk past my old place to get home, past the apartment I grew up in and the field where I spent evenings at. From my current place, I can just about make out the place. It’s not that far really. If I walked briskly, I could probably cover the distance in just over five minutes. But the journey has taken me a decade to complete and I’m crushed it’s come to an end. I know I’m not just saying goodbye to my childhood. It’s so much more than that. I’m saying goodbye to the best ten years of my life.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.
The overbearing first impression the Australian friend of mine had of Singapore was that its people must have been instructed to speak in short form like some double-speak code with acronyms, abbreviations and initials to confuse our neighbours. When I considered this startling observation, I was initially skeptical. But recent conversations with various people have made me realize how cut-off-my-testicles-with-a-grapefruit-knife annoying Singaporean ‘acronym-ese’ can be. A conversation with a Singaporean could end up a little something like ‘So my CEO friend and I went to the SIR to get my EP to take to the HDB via the MRT with our E-Z link cards before moving on to JB along the BKE for a cheap DVD. Forget Singlish. Welcome to the Sesame Street.
However, I’ll admit acronyms do make our lives a tad easier and, as a result, we’ve all grown used to them. I mean, it was until recently that I realized DJ meant ‘disc jockey’. But it appears some ‘trendy’ kids have taken that to a whole new level. In a desperate attempt to prove they’re au fait with the Singaporean culture, teenagers have adopted this acronym jargon to show they are cool. Or perhaps a little more on the nose, they do it so they can bitch about others without actually revealing their victims' names but more importantly, without revealing their own names.
To make matter worse, these self-satisfied, smug people do this using the type of English usually reserved for factious Englishmen in double-padded blazers. But then again, I guess I have absolutely no right to disparage these people as being daft. I mean, these powerful, intelligent, thesaurus-wielding people have contributed so much to us – gossip, dissent, anger, the list is just endless. Take gossipboy for instance, he certainly isn’t a daft person, is he? He rarely says anything funny or upsetting. I mean, as the source of all disparaging gossip, he can’t. I suppose he’s simply bound to exploring every shadow of everyone’s personality. Every nuance and insufficiency of the many people he plans to gossip about. So allow me to explain, U R A F. Just use your imagination.
Well what can I say, it's just another day in the life of mine.
My parents have seriously contemplated disowning me recently. I don’t know what that means but I may have to start looking for a new home. And I think I know how and why this came about. I suppose it’s no secret I’m horribly infatuated with the idea of Christmas. And so, being that horribly infatuated guy, I was naturally eager to celebrate and drink as much as possible during that 24 hours. Let’s just say I behaved like the present-day, distraught Charlton Heston banging the floor and quite possibly wearing nothing but a loincloth. I got home round midday the following day with an empty wallet and an even emptier head.
‘Where were you!?’
When I informed the parents that I was out drinking and got terribly drunk, they blew out and spewed the kind of verbal diarrhoea usually reserved for parliamentarians. And so, the peaceful tranquility of the birth of Jesus was shattered and it became something fresh out of the post-apocalyptic world of the Planet of the Apes. I’ve become the Grinch that stole Christmas.
I’ve now realized that my soon to be senile parents don’t understand the concept of being ‘me’. Such contentious issues mean nothing to them. They can try but leaps and bounds they can never make. You see, being ‘me’ is about being free.
If there’s another thing about me that you should know is that I hate violence. Given the opportunity, I’d gladly join the Americans in singing ‘We Are The World.’ You see, the long-harbored dream of taking a trip to KL with my mates was cancelled due to some political tension and the possibility of a riot. This normally wouldn’t have deterred me at all but with my disobedient father refusing to relax, I’ve been forced to imagine we all would have been ravaged by flames and killed should we have gone. I don’t wish to sound flippant but we all know that in the real case of a conflict, I would be running around like a headless chicken and kicking down old ladies to get to the nearest gun shop. But that’s my parents for you. It’s hereditary; the obsessive worrying I mean, not the headless chicken part.
However, I know my parents mean well. But perhaps they should try to be less neurotic and get out more. In the meantime, will someone point me to the YMCA?
Well what can I say, it’s just another day on the life of mine.
Someone once told me that to write well, you must write what you know. This is what I know – My name is Patrick SethRyan Chew, I’m seventeen years old and I look the part of a hopeless romantic. A pathetic sod to the core, I spent most of my life with my head in the clouds. You see, I never really had a proper childhood. When kids were out playing and living theirs, I was busy viewing mine. So, having missed out on a large chunk of my childhood, I suppose I’m eager to relive and recapture my lost innocence.
I don’t know about you but when I was young, I wanted to be a hero and in retrospect, I guess I still do. Forgive the generalization but I find most Singaporeans anything but heroes. Given the opportunity, most Singaporeans would kick down old ladies and slap innocent children just so they can get a seat on a crowded bus. So I guess being Patrick SethRyan Chew – the boy who spent most of his life with his head in the clouds, is convinced he was born to do extraordinary things and stop all this madness. I’m not sure if it was the alcohol, the lack of decent sized testicles or a combination of both because I sincerely thought it was my turn to shine. Let’s just say I ended up with more alcohol and an urgent need to cut my testicles off with a grapefruit knife.
Without wishing to sound too obsessive and also remembering to cover all the angles, naturally, it’s not me. But I have to be accurate when putting words in peoples’ mouths. I suppose it’s the people, who face contentious issues yet still stay true to themselves, who are the ones worth sticking around for. They are my true heroes. To keep my sanity, I now vow to steer clear of any thoughts and deeds of heroism. Perhaps even at a time of emergency, I may just kick down another old lady and take a long bus ride home. Because that makes sense to me now.
What can I say, it just another day in the life of mine.
