Word of the day: "flagellation"


It's 10:30, and I feel this strange burst of monstrous inspiration. Maybe it's because the whole day was spent in the throes of an emotional high (one of those inexplicable feats of serendipity that comes in the absence of travail, the right conjunction of hormonal and neurochemical balance, and seriously funny conversations), and traces of it are still lingering in my system.


First things first; to complete the now seriously overdue chronology from like yay-so-many weeks ago. If anyone wants a recap, the entry's here.

Saturday


Woke up with a peculiar absence of hangover headache. I was sprawled face down on a brown, chintzy sofa. As I got up to take in my surroundings, the familiar cry of the drunkard's morning resounded in my head: "Where the hell am I?" I was in some apartment; that was obvious. The layout had the blocky, utilitarian, cinderblock look of the HDB aesthetic. I slowly clambered to my feet, taking in the small TV in the corner, the pictures of various trance and house DJs plastering the wall; scattered muscial manuscripts and note sheets all over the place; several aromatherapy burners on the tiny coffee table, beanbags everywhere.. and the heavily used Yamaha piano in the corner. The windowshades were drawn, and I had a feeling that light was generally never permitted to enter this domicile from the outside; it was to be only internally generated from candles or a halogen light bulb.


Okay. I knew whose place this was now, even if I'd never visited before. But just how the hell did I end up here?


After clambering up to the kitchen to wash my face and procure some food(the stacks of dark-choc Tim-Tams and table water biscuits further confirmed the identity of my erstwhile host), I trudged back to the sofa, turned on the television, and quietly watched CNN for a while, eating from a can of button mushrooms.


Presently, the bedroom door opened, and A- trudged out. For those of you not in the know; A- is an old, *old* friend of mine, who deserves some mention here as my fellow basket case and one of my terribly few platonic female friends. Probably the only one I presently keep in regular touch with.


Some context into the nature of our friendship; we've stopped each other from suicide at least once each (ongoing "suicide prevention buddy" program), we had the same tuition teacher, and we only talk to each other about once a year.


A-: "Oh. You're awake. Do you want breakfast?"


Me: "No thanks.. I've already started in on your mushrooms."


A-: "Bloody hell - I wanted those for porridge. Nevermind. It's fine. Go ahead. Come into my house and eat my mushrooms. I don't give a shit." (She has a notably deadpan, monotonous voice.)


She then trudged into the kitchen, and emerged carrying a bowl of cereal in milk. I watched as she sat in her usual, preternaturally composed fashion on a beanbag, eating off the coffee table.


Me: "It's been a while."


A-: "Yes. What did I say the last time about CALLING in advance? Shit, you're damn lucky H- (her Teutonic lover) wasn't around."


Me: "How did I end up here?"


She did not seem perturbed by the question.


A-: "You called around 2am, ranting about how you needed a place to stay because your friend suddenly fucking tua-ed you and that he had to get up early the next morning. Or SOMETHING like that. I don't know lah. I didn't even know you were in town."


Awkward silence for a minute.


Me: "I *would* have called you and your brother out for lunch, you know. Just that this was a really sudden trip..."


A-: "Umm.. yeah. Nevermind."


Me: "This is a nice place though. Erm. Is it cheaper than the last place you were staying at?" (Interlude - she moves from apartment to apartment. Restlessly. Something compulsively pathological.)


A-: "Kind of; and an HDB doesn't have as many facilities lah. But at least the location is better."


Me: "So. What are you doing today?"


A- got up, and started playing Chopin's Etude on the piano. She's one of the best pianists I've ever known; if only she hadn't slit her wrists after she found out that her 36-hour, amphetamine-inspired piano-frenzy orgies had permanently damaged the tendons of her fingers. That messed up her chances to go to a good conservatoire abroad; which, unfortunately, assumes the dimenson of "just another tragedy" in her life, given her sordid familial and personal history.


A-: "Church. Around twelve." Despite everything, she still believes in God. I've never figured out why. She motioned to a clock hanging on the wall. It was 10:45. "So you'd better clear out by eleven thirty." She smiled thinly. "Next time call first, can? Wah lao, aren't you a bit sian of the calling up at middle of the night begging for a place to stay routine?"


Me: "I don't know.... I guess it's a habit leh."


I packed up quietly; made sure all my clothes and toiletries were in order (read: crammed into bag), and headed out the door. She still sat at the piano, playing. As I said, "Goodbye", she raised a hand, her eyes never leaving the piano, one-handedly moving over the keys, playing some peculiar little ditty of her own composition.


As I left, I noted, illuminated by the sunlight coming in from the main door, the faint tracery of scars on the wrist beneath her upraised hand.


When I emerged in the outside world, I spent a few minutes trying to figure out just which part of Singapore I was in. Managed to ascertain that I was somewhere in Hougang - well and good. I promptly took a cab back down to DBS, to try banking in the damaged cheque (which had, by now, more or less dried-out).


The DBS main office at Shenton was located below ground level. I estimate there must have been around 40 counters; and the ceiling was about two storeys high. All of this gave an impression of a massive vault, or an extremely brightly-lit crypt. I wondered idly if it was modelled after Gringnotts; certainly some of the tellers at the counter seemed to be of either goblin or kender pedigree, depending on whether they were sporting surly frowns, or perkily service-oriented smiles.


Noticed that in one of the large waiting areas, there was an old woman bleeding from some kind of gash in her arm, and a couple of frenzied bank officers trying to apply rudimentary first aid. She was bearing it stoically, her seamed features locked in Spartan impassivity; in a manner I've seen among the advanced of age. Maybe it's because their generation is inured to hardship; maybe because age has dulled their nerves' capacity to communicate pain - more likely some cultural inhibition from their time against calling too much attention to suffering; compared to our generation's habit of wearing all our pathetic emotional travails on our shirtsleeves like Boy Scout badges. I was reminded of how my great-aunt broke her hip once, in the bathroom, and tried to conceal it from her children whom she was living with for two days until the pain became unbearable.


Granted, though, I've known some pretty crotchety old bastards - like my grandfather's unremitting abuse of his entire extended family during the final phase of his life. Although he had advanced Alzheimer's disease as an excuse.


Fumed while interminably queuing for about 45 minutes. Good Lord, I'd forgotten how *irritating* it was to queue up for banking stuff, given that these days, after businessng hours, I just slip into the bank branch I was formerly working at and leave the appropriate forms and shit for my ex-colleagues to deal with the following day and SMS me the results. When I reached the teller, she stared askance at the damaged cheque, and said with a dubious tone, "I'm not sure if this cheque will go through."


"Nevermind. Bank it in anyway. No harm trying." After all, I just wanted to show my parents the deposit slip, which indicated that I'd done my filial duty by running their picayune errand. And anyhow, people are always prepared to believe the worst about the banking system's ineptitude, should the cheque be returned....


Also noted on the teller's desk that there were some stacks of entry forms with extremely badly coloured figures on the tellers' desk. Some junior savings account competition; nice to see that our financial institutions are promoting creativity amongst the fiscally underaged.


After that, I shunted back into the world of light, and made my way down to Borders - it was only about 11:45, and I didn't think that anyone would be free that early on a Saturday morning. So I went into Borders, and, once again, back to my element, surrounded by books - sometimes, during the all-too-common moments of suicidal frustration; there is nothing like walking into a bookstore to remind me just *why* I want to live forever.


There may be computer games, movies, anime, and blue cheese - but above all; there's *books*. Words. Carefully strung sentences; dry passages of complex ideas, rousing tales, subtle complexities, descriptions, metaphors, analogies, jokes, characters - in the final analysis, what is there in this wretched world that makes sense? There is only fiction, and everything else.


I called a couple of friends out for lunch around 2pm; after 3 hours of orgiastically reading. Kept my selections fairly niche this time round - was reading Vampire: The Masquerade sourcebooks:) Merely keeping in touch with the mythos.


One of my friends met me at Borders, and we gadded around for a while browsing through the non-fiction section. He had recently acquired a taste for popular science books; having read Dawkin's Blind Watchmaker and Selfish Gene, and was now onto some book called "Mortality, Morality". It was a rather outre little treatise on the physical causes of death; the exact physiological changes that occur in the human body upon death. The "morality" bit kicks in only in a few latter chapters; when the writer rather engagingly discusses the role of death in human moral philosophy.


I was looking for God's Debris; and I had a bit of a tricky time finding it. It wasn't in Philosophy, or Religion. Finally, me and my friend went down to the information counter, where a rather pimply assistant was staring fixatedly at his terminal. As we approached, he didn't even look up; so I politely inquired if he could assist me in finding the book.


He grunted in what I assumed to be assent, and continued vigorously tapping at his terminal. I was prepared to wait in Zen serenity (my tolerance level for bureaucratically pisspoor service has been callused after the experience of applying for passport renewals in Malaysian immigration), but my friend, a more impatient sort, said to me, loudly, with his drawling, typical-Malayalami tones, "This is the information desk, isn't it? I mean - we *are* here for information. Where's the information? Are you receiving any information?"


Malayalami accents have this way of conveying weary yet vitriolic sarcasm in a manner unmatched by any Asian race. Case study: Mahathir during his West-bashing interviews.(another footnote: Mahathir is half Indian by way of the distaff side)


Cheerfully playing along, I replied, "No idea. I'm certainly not getting any information my way."


After continuing in this vein for a few moments, the poor Borders assistant blurted out: "Just give me a moment, okay??"


A few more taps later, he guided us to the "Metaphysical Studies" section (which was pitifiully small, but looked surprisingly well-worn. Figures; people attracted to a topic like Metaphysical Studies are probably those who would spend hours browsing through obscure titiles like "The Wiccan Rede and Your Love Life" and "Broken God" without actually buying anything.). I was surprised to note that most of the books in this shelf were supernatural studies; ranging from the usual Charmed/Buffy-inspired love charm recipe books, to some volumes on the Rennes-les-Chateau mystery - although I didn't see Holy Blood, Holy Grail:)


Chortle-worthy quote: "Then he rang off. Slammed the phone down, presumably. Except that I think it was a mobile phone. How do you slam down a mobile phone? Angrily pressing the off button isn't as expressive, really."


Browsed through God's Debris, but hesitated momentarily at the rather high price for a very slim volume. Still, managed to extract a few pithy observations, and I agree totally with those who say it's a book whose value lies not in what it says, which contains a significant amount of what Scott Adams admits is blatant crap.But it's the kind of book that makes you makes you question the world you live in; as well as the fallacy of the many assumptions that one holds for granted as truths.


"The best any human can do is to pick a delusion that helps them get through the day..... At some level, we all suspect that other people don't believe their own religion any more than we believe ours....Everyone knows that the odds of picking the true religion -- if such a thing exists -- is nil."


"God is probability." (This makes sense, intuititively. If there is any higher power, probability - chaos - is it. Anyone who plays the lottery knows this.)


At around 2:30, our other friend arrived, and we adjourned to Burger King for a quick meal. Damn, I've missed the Mushroom Swiss Cheese burger; in Australia, the local "Burger King" is called "Hungry Jack's", and they put fucking BEETROOT in their burgers!


Proceeded to Kallang for a game of pool. Since there were three of us, and one of us was a pool fanatic who plays regularly, we soon decided that classic knock-out wasn't the way to go. Instead, it was proposed that we play Indonesian pool; a three-man version where you're supposed to defend your balls while potting the sets assigned to your opponents. However, even this got stale after a while, so we decided to play for cigarettes every frame. It got oddly fun, despite the occasional bout of self-mocking convict humour.


We then headed down to Holland V. to meet up a third compadre. On the way there, as we were turning in front of the KFC, we suddenly felt a vibration along the floor of the car. Suddenly, the guy driving shouted, "Fuck - check out the Ferrari in front!" As we all looked, then we noticed there were two - no, three - no, FOUR Ferraris in a row pulling in; and their vibrations in sync as they drove past were causing a mini sonic boom of sorts. Ah, the joys of wealth - no, must remember to cultivate zanshin and detachment from all worldly material desires..


Dinner was a fairly desultory affair, but after that, I headed out with one of them to Orchard Road, because he wanted to try out his new Sony Cybershot. Apparently he'd gotten the lens hacked, so that it could see through thin clothing when the IR filter was invoked. Unfortunately, it only appeared to work in bright daylight, as everyone still appeared disappointingly fully clad among us. However, we did have a jolly time taking photos of the Christmas decorations, trying to surreptitiously capture snapshots of chio girls passing by (yes, we have no life), and filming an urban-jungle indie tale of horror & self-loathing dubbed: "The Bleh Witch Plojek."


After some practicing to be Adam King, (does *anyone* , I mean, *anyone* comprehend this senseless ad campaign? He's not even real!), I headed off to meet another friend of mine. This next associate, is a flaxen-haired pretty boy, who is extremely amusing to go out with because I get to see a lot more chicks close up, due to them constantly turning their heads to check him out. By some odd genetic drift, he doesn't look Chinese, despite being ethnically pure Han, as well as being from HCJC, with all the attendant cheena-ness one would expect from an alumni of that noble JC. ("What the fuck is diamond diamond diamond???"). He actually looks partially Eurasian, an image dispelled as soon as he opens his mouth to exclaim: "Out of point leh!" His hair is almost auburn, despite using no dyeing.


I actually pity him, because he's a devout Christian, and also because he's so pretty no one takes him seriously, the poor sod. I remember once at this outing with some scholar caste types, he and I were tagging along as accessories. The conversation had God-knows-how veered into the topic of Cartesian philosophy, and when he chipped in with a Tomist argument straight from the Summa Theologica, a couple of the girls there and a guy visibly started with surprise, because he had been so silent all night. Very very amusing. Later on, one of the guys confessed to me in an aside that they had thought all his brains were in his fringe.


(For the record, he claims that he doesn't spend *hours* styling his locks, they just happen to fall around his chiselled features au naturel. RIGHT.)


We spent the first half of the night sitting at the bar in the Marriott Hotel, nursing some non-alcoholic "mocktails". Although he had inititally expressed a desire to 'cheong', that had rapidly faded, particularly as it transpired that it would only be the two of us. During the first half of the conversation, we discussed the usual; catching up on events, me providing him a lengthly lecture on the cheque-clearing and money-transit process (he asked, for some weird reason, and I indulged. "Since I was young I've always wondered how those banks cart money to and from the mint."), and amusedly noting the way Japanese girls in the lobby would turn their heads to survey him better.


After a while, we decided to exeunt for ice-cream. In his own words: "I crave ice-cream. I always give in to my cravings."


"Oh? And why is it you're still single and (by his own admission) a virgin?"


We slouched out, heading for Swensen's. However, the crowd outside was horribly long; so we did the next best thing - adjourning to CineLeisure. Was tempted to go watch he Returner, but couldn't find a decent time slot. (Me: "Come on, man, why do you need to see Takeshi on the big screen? Just gaze at the fucking mirror.") As we stood there, dithering, I asked him what to do?


He stared blankly back at me.


Me: "Okay. Here's my suggestion. You believe in God, right?"


Him: "Yeah..."


Me: "And I believe in chaos, or, more accurately, probability. Therefore, I say we flip a coin. Heads, we go order a bag of popcorn and have a few cigarettes outside CineLeisure. Tails, we try our luck elsewhere. Either way, this method conforms to our individual belief systems; you leaving in it God's hands, and me leaving it to probability... Now you flip. I can never catch the damn thing on the way down. Poor motor coordination lah."


It came out tails.


And so we traipsed back down the road, in search of ice-cream.... and to our joy, we noticed that the crowd at Swenesn's had somehow thinned trememndously. I was about to suggest flipping a coin again, to decide if we should interrupt our ongoing search or continue - when he screamed, "Fuck the coin lah! Take control of your destiny!" With such stirring words ringing in my head, we sat down, and ordered a Topless 5 each.


Incidentally, I noticed that Swensen's doesn't *have* the Topless 5 on the menu anymore; the waiters recognise it, but it's no longer listed as an option. I wonder why?


"For a skinny guy, you sure eat a lot of ice-cream."


As we ate, and conversed on a variety of topics, from reasons for believing in God, to economics, to movies, to the usual good-natured ranting about women, I pointed out. "You know. We really might give the impression of being some gay couple, the way we're bickering now." (It was a rather heated discussion about his avowed impossibility of finding a girl he's attracted to).


I continued. "Not that I mind too much, actually. Given my blatant lack of success with the opposite sex, at least as part of a gay couple I can say I snagged a looker in you. Although it's patently obvious which of us is the butch and which is the bitch."


He went on to moan and bitch about how the only girls who seemed to throw themselves at him were the skanky hos to which he had zero attraction. (Which might be largely true; when clubbing with him, the girls I've seen try to obviously flirt with him aren't too bad lookers, but he could probably do better. However, the really good-looking ones tend to be escorted or famously attached, which immediately dissuades him, given his moral persuasion).


I persisted, "But you've never thought of going for a girl you're attracted to? A really good looking one? I mean, fuck even if she has a boyfriend lah."


"I don't really work that way lor. And besides, what makes you think I haven't tried lah? And failed."


Ah, perhaps there is some moral justice in this world that even the good-looking bastards don't nail all the bitches. (In misogynistic mood today, for a variety of reasons. Blow me.) But then again, I think my friend is just too inhibited.


He added, "Do you think I wouldn't use whatever advantages I have if I was in a club and a girl I liked wasn't escorted? Please lah, I'm not a saint."


Riiight.


Anyway, we parted, as usual, on amicable terms, and he suggested that next time I crash at his hostel room in NUS. "For God's sake, man, it's a bit fucking scandalous to keep staying at women's houses lah." It's a suggestion I'll take him up on, when (not if), the next time comes around that I'm wandering the streets of the Lion City like a derelict.


Went for supper with tonight's friendly landlord (incidentally, the guy with whose digital camera we were playing with earlier). He's a very earthy chap who's seriously considering joining the PAP, but he's worried by rumours that they do *extensive* background checks.


In his exact words: "For how many years do I have to keep my computer free of porn? I mean, how far back does MHA's proxy servers store this kind of data?"


Me: "Don't know leh, but hard drives are cheap."


We were also discussing the moral ramifications of success. I mean, let us consider the Genting casino. That place, one of the most lucrative businesses in Malaysia (indeed, the Lim family is the single wealthiest family in Malaysia as a result), is arguably the ruination of many lives. But to what extent is it an immoral activity? I mean, people have a right to choose, don't they? No one coerces them to drive up the damn, landslide-prone mountain into Genting Highlands to blow a few thousand dollars at the blackjack table.


But on the other hand, the same can be said of liquor and tobacco companies.. as well as drug dealers.


As I told my friend, "To be honest, I'm reconciled to the fact that, if I ever become successful, it'll be by stepping on the bodies of a lot of people, whether it's my employees, competitors, or customers. But the sad thing is, I really don't care much. For me, it's just about making sure I don't screw my friends, and take care of my family. Everyone else.... everyone else is fair game. That's the way it is. It's either squeeze and exploit - or spend my life being squeezed and exploited - like in my damn job now."


"... the only certainty is that none of us will see Heaven..."


His opinion on whether we have it lucky or not: "Well, look at the guy who runs the Lee Foundation. I heard that his family were pretty rich back then - but their father made them eat porridge and salted eggs almost everyday. Apparently they donated more money to a school every year than they spent on their own family."


My retort: "Well, I know a girl who raked up about 15,000 pounds in credit card bills in a *month*. And her parents didn't notice because her mom regularly spends that much."


So where exactly do we stand? Difficult, difficult call. Sometimes I wonder just how motivated I am to get myself out of my rut; but then again, my life isn't that bad a rut, is it? I'm quite well taken care of; and I do have enough money to do *most* of what I want - buy computer games, watch movies, go for drinks. Most of my desires are met, barring extreme stuff like travelling all over the world at will or owning a Porsche.


But once in a while, I do feel this brief, incandescent hunger to *do better* than where I've ended up; to not be a wage slave in aeternam; to be able to afford my own damned bookstore some day.. .to be able to walk into a restaurant and not have to worry about the prices on the menu.


And there's not much else to say. I spent the night in his place; and the next morning I made the slow, interminable bus trip back to KL, and I'm back in work now, three weeks later, expression glazed, but mildly exultant because access to the blog and blogger seems to have been restored at work. Also, I haven't been sleeping well lately - only about 3-4 hours a day. Bad habit, due to some seriously long conversational time.


And the chronology ends there.


Okay. Moving on to brief snapshot of amusing events in the weeks that passed:


I lost my moccasins a few days ago. Was at a showroom bungalow with family, just checking it out, when, as we emerged from the house, I noticed that my moccasins had been replaced by exactly the same pair and make (Timberland brown), but it was a *visibly* older and tattier version. I put my feet in - it was the same size - but it felt *weird* - the sole was clearly shaped by someone else's foot, and there seeemed a lot of sand particles in it. ARGH.


Have been talking a lot to some old friends I haven't heard from in a while. It's funny how some things that happened at the time so completely passed your notice; the opportunities you missed and the - the chances you could have had. But when you loook back on it, in 20/20 hindsight, the only thing more glaring than the obviousness of what you missed is the certainty that you've forever lost your chance, that only shot at something approaching... I don't know? Happiness? Possibility? .. Whatever it is, it's all gone now.


Finally finished Mafia; am playing Arx Fatalis now. Am horribly behind on my game-playing schedule; I *must* finish up Arx Fatalis by this week if possible. Am prepared to defer eating, going out (no big loss there), and possibly taking a day off from work to get it squared away. Arx Fatalis - so far it seems like a great homage to Ultima Underworld (and, like the character in Ultima Underworld, your alter ego seems to get *hungry* all the damn time...) , the story's quite fascinating, and the magic system's well done. The graphic textures are surprisingly unique and varied for a world set entirely underground, and the monsters are pretty well-rendered (for some reason they reminded me of the creatures in the old game Azrael's Tear).


Movies watched - nothing much over the last few weeks, sadly enough. I don't know where all the time has frittered away to; but *very* little of it seemed to be spent on my preferred recreational activities. Most of it was on the usual time-wasting family obligations, and too much of it seemed spent in banal chatter online. I swear, I'm going to buy a new book after work today. Because I caught myself looking at my sister's Harry Potter books with some fascination; a sign that I need a literature hit *soon*.


Purchased Analyse That and Solaris; the latter an adapataion from a *great* Stanislaw Lem novel. Solaris is a horribly slow movie, by Steven Soderbergh (of Traffic and Erin Brockovich fame), but it speaks of the poignance of memory very well - and it has a beautiful theme floating throughout it of 'why not accept madness if it makes you happy?' Ultimately though, it's a bit of a hollow story, with virtually zero resolution, but it's a show I loved for the ideas it explores. In fact, I'm curious enough to see if I can dig up the 1972 Andrei Tarkovsky version.


Spent Hari Raya dozing at home, listlessly reorganising my archives. Was euchred into one Hari Raya open house; where I noted that the owner owned a lovely Jaguar XK8. Is such luxury halal?


My sister has come home. Have purloined her digital camera to take some shots of my office, as part of project to create a VRML site depicting my workplace. Yeah right:)


Most of my friends are coming back as well, this December. The chickens are coming home to roolicst.


A friend of mine got a scholarship to go to Russia to study medicine. I told her that she should've leaped at the opportunity. (To go to the Bolshoi Ballet! To visit the Hermitage! Side trips to Eastern Europe or the Caucasus!) Unfortunately her terribly myopic parents refused to let her go, citing fears of Chechen terrorism (seriously) as well as concern for the weather. Sigh.


Comments on the tracking. This batch has the usual weirdness and the usual cheehongness; so shall simply list and defer too much commentary:


"adidas sling bags big enough to put shoes and clothes in" - Get a Samsonite, friend


"eatmejusteatme" - Is this a pornographic exhortation or simply a reference to the blog?


"Taekwando + push ups" - Now I'd like to see some guy doing a push up and launching into some taekwando kick...


"vampire hunter d count meier pictures" - A very good, if rather bloodthirsty anime. Storywise is good but not great, but the animation has fantastic production values. The artist has done a collaborative feature with Neil Gaiman of Sandman fame - Dream Hunters


"soul reaver 2 transcript I see you for what you truly are now" - A Great game, and a great storyline. There IS a full transcript of cutscenes available on the Internet somewhere; at gamefaqs.com, I think


"pee girls web1000 " - Urine fetish?


"full metal panic ringtone" - Another good, nicely wacky, mecha-heavy anime, although I don't think the opening track makes a great ringtone - unlike, say, Gatekeepers 21's melancholy opening. Damn, am still slooooowly downloading episode 4 off fservs....


Something that made me laugh insanely over the last couple of weeks:


See, in China, I'm told by the New Guy at work (who studied Mandarin at Shanghai University for six months after graduating from University of Kentucky) that some hospitals there operate on such a shoestring budget, that one has to pay to purchase blood at a local blood bank, before the doctors can actually perform the necessary transfusion.


So my colleague was asking, "What the hell? Do you mean they like buy the packets of plasma at a gift shop downstairs, and then haul it upstairs to the operating room?"


"Yeah - imagine if you haven't got enough small change or credit cards on you at the time. Or, even worse, if you're a typical Chinaman and want to haggle over the price...."


(mimicking hilariously) "Urrrgggh.... aaggh.. ehh.. can borrow ten bucks or not... shit.. this sample not fresh.. got lumps in it..." "ehhh.. this sample wrong type lah.. can refund or not brother..." "aarrgghhh.. only one packet left... can split into two for me and my friend here..."


Also discovered that New Guy owned a Remington hunting rifle, a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun, and a Colt 1911 pistol while studying abroad. He says he hasn't brought any of his guns back. His supervisor seems a little more chary of throwing him too heavy assignments now.


Comments on blog entries. Hm. Maybe I'll comment later. But just because we have Asperger's syndrome doesn't mean we have licence to run roughshod over the feelings of our friends, Gabriel. *Try* not to ruin everything by being yourself, hein?