Mum bursts into my room, yelling for me to get up. Eyes open, head throbbing. Family friends appear, disappear, reappear, cramming joy down throats. My two little cousins glued to the TV, frantically mashing buttons and racing cars. Crusted bread and cold noodles waiting patiently on a makeshift table. Panzer scrounging for scraps like a metal detector. Every now and then check my phone for missed calls and unread messages (sigh). People walking around, sitting down, getting up, hands everywhere, food dropped on floor. Mum tearing around the kitchen. The plastic Christmas tree stands forlornly, hung with bells and balls and tinsel, the fat girl at the party in her ill-patterned dress.

After the congee and the sashimi and the slabs of ham, grandparents lounge on couches, perplexed by the children or dozing in a post-lunch slump. Bittersweet taste of chocolate truffles in my mouth. Sister playing piano, brother strumming the guitar. Play a tune, Grandma urges me. I decline, but she persists. I hammer a few notes, every now and then my fingers stumbling on the keys like a drunken sailor.

People start leaving, and then they are gone. Traces of happiness (now gone) scattered on tables and floors. Cleaning up and packing up is sad. There is a party tonight, I hear, and I ring my friend for details. He doesn't pick up. I try again and again. No one wants to be alone on Christmas Day. I give up, go online, feeling blue. And then the phone rings...

How do you comfort someone over the loss of a loved one? Tell them they've gone to a better place? That now they're free from pain? Words such as these seem meaningless to me. I'm not sure how I'd deal with it. The weight of memories will be too much, like a ton of feathers to be slowly lifted away, one by one, by the winds of time. One day my turn will come, too.
My hairdresser, let's call him Bruce, once told me something memorable after cutting a balding man's hair. He said that as we become older, we turn into babies again. We lose our hair, our teeth, our memory. We become fragile and defenseless like we were when we first entered the world. Ah, to be lost and dreaming in life's womb. Bruce and I often have deep and meaningful conversations like that.

I went to dragonboat training on Thursday night after work. As we rowed lazily out toward the middle of the harbour, the water rippled gently like a sheet of velvet, catching the the dying remnants of the setting sun in flashes of orange. After a few warm-up drills, we did a long endurance row that left my arms burning and my chest heaving breathlessly. We then rested, sitting there, the boat bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the water. Everyone in the boat had their heads bowed and paddles across their laps, like a religious ritual there in the gloom of the bay, a prayer to the god of boats and water and men. It was then that I had a moment of doubt, looking up and seeing the others in their silent worship. I wondered what I was doing here, spending so much time in the cold and wet, digging a watery grave with my wooden paddle. Is this where I want to be? What I want to do? Who I want to be with?

Am I coming or going, I hardly know. I shall burn brightly, and quietly implode.

Nothing unusual...nothing strange...close to nothing at all...

My god, it's almost Christmas again. I was planning to go somewhere during the break, a short road trip even, but it doesn't look like it's happening. Too tired to plan, too poor to splurge. Perhaps I'll save my leave for sunnier days.
Work is actually getting a bit better - there are now times when I enjoy what I'm doing. I even got complimented for my hard work (ha!), leaving me with a warm fuzzy feeling for the rest of the day. Oh and today, whilst helping a female colleague move her folders upstairs, another colleague commented that I'm a "ladies' man". I didn't know how to respond; I was slightly annoyed by the label, and found it condescending even.

Now that I've got more spare time on my hands, I've been catching up with friends, catching up on reading and doing more dragonboating. I went to my first official race on Sunday, and it was pretty fun. Our team did really well considering most of us were new, and we all came out of it exhausted and a little browner. All those teams dressed in uniform, banners draped across stands, the shouting, the food, the hot hot sun...it reminded me of school sports carnivals, many, many, many years ago...

At night the only warmth comes from the neon glow of the desk lamp, the only smiles on the faces of TV celebrities. Alone in your room, the phone is silent, the world outside, distant. The heart aches, clutching desperately for the past, afraid for the future. You sit and ponder, thinking that there must be a logical way out, but the more the ideas run in your head, the more they snowball into some hideous monstrosity, soon to consume you.

You are an Evening Emo.

The first time I saw Blade Runner, I was awed by its prophetic vision of a bleak and hopeless future - a sprawling mass of towers and crowded streets; a melting pot of diverse people scurrying through the dirty bowels of the city. From the opening scene of flames spewing forth from industrial stacks to the final scene on a rain-soaked roof, I was fixated by this ground-breaking movie.
For those of you who have never seen it, Blade Runner is set in the future where Replicants (genetically manufactured humans) are used for dangerous and degrading work in off-world colonies. Six Replicants escape from a colony and are hiding on Earth; it is the duty of Blade Runners - special police units - to hunt down and 'retire' them.
I saw Blade Runner again on Monday at the cinemas. A 'final cut' version of the film, remastered and re-edited, has been released, and I was lucky enough to book a ticket to what was the last of only four screenings in Sydney. The cinema used a new state-of-the-art high-definition projector, and the viewing was nothing short of amazing.
Okay. I realise now that I'm probably the only one who's excited about it all. In fact, most of you will never watch the film, and even if you did, probably won't like it. Oh well. The brutal truth geeks must face.

While I am writing this, an old friend rings. I recognise the number, and hesitate. Against my own advice, I pick up the call. A voice, warm and familiar, speaks. She asks if I'm at the corporate run - she's there now at the finish line and can see people wearing shirts from my old work. I tell her I was there last year but not this time. I neglect to tell her that I'm no longer working there.
Long after we hang up, the sound of her voice still echoes in my ear. It makes me realise that you never get over the past; you merely get away.

Slit my throat. Cut off a limb. Tore down the house. Kicked over the castle. Uprooted the flowers. Felled the forest. Destroyed the refuge. Burnt the bridge. Drowned the fire. Snuffed out the light.

So many paths. Blindly I go.

'I keep falling over, I keep passing out, when I see a face like you.'
- Black Star, Radiohead

It's time to choose your uni course preferences but you're overseas, so it's left to your parents to fill in the forms and send them in. Your parents don't approve of what you've chosen ('There's not many jobs, the money is poor!'), and after a brief debate you relent and go with what they think is best. Having just finished high school, you're having the time of your life with friends overseas - you're young and you're free, and the paths before you stretch out like cart rails towards a gold mine. Now is not the time to worry about failure or consequences!
Like so many things in life though, it's the little slip-ups that have the biggest impact on your life. Because of my indifference, I didn't study what I originally intended. I struggled at uni and despised it. I went mad with feelings of incompetency, and nearly didn't make it. I've come this far now, but the dreams I've been chasing are further than ever. I applied for further study (oh, my escape!) and got rejected; even seemingly easy passages are closed to me. I am underwater, forever trying to reach the surface.
These thoughts run through my head as I walk home after work. The sky is a mixture of purple and orange during that fleeting moment before day turns to night, and a pair of sparrows flitter between red-tiled rooftops. The weather is pleasantly warm - spring is here, and I am merrily drunk on the fragrance of flowering roses.

I've started my new job, and although prior to starting I was both excited and a little apprehensive, now it's all a bit...underwhelming. Maybe it's because I've only just begun, but I don't feel like I'm really working. Could it be the fact that I'm no longer wearing a suit to work? That I don't have to tuck in my shirt and polish my shoes, sir? At times I feel (and look) like I'm going to uni instead of earning a living. It could also be the transition from my old work to the new one, much like the transition one makes when moving from primary to high school - when you move into the big kids' playground, part of you wants to go back to the sandpit.
I come in every morning, I work hard and work till late, but I feel detached from everything. Like there are two minds inside my head, and one of them is asleep. Something is...missing. This apathy is pervading my entire life at the moment. At work I put no effort into making friends; with friends I am a shadow.

I had my first dragonboat race two weeks' back. Our team had several boats - I was in a boat with fellow newbies. I screwed up the first heat big time. I completely mistimed my strokes and only managed to splash water everywhere. Our boat came last, but fortunately I was at the rear of the boat so no one saw me fuck up. 'The boat felt so heavy!' proclaimed some of the crew members as we clambered out of the boat. I managed to hide a smile.
The second heat was much better and we came second, however we didn't earn enough points to progress further. Damn.

Last week I attended a friend's karaoke birthday party, and the same apathy saw me languishing wistfully in a dark corner, watching the people around me slowly get pissed. I spoke when spoken to, laughed when you laughed (and drank water when you drank beer), but if you had peered past the fog, you would have noticed that at times you could see through me to the other side, and if you had brushed your hand against mine, it would have been as if brushing your hand through smoke.
I'm searching for something, but what?
Going home, I forgo the quickest route and drive down the busiest and most brightly-lit roads.

My room is a mess. Underwear, socks, shirts and toiletries are strewn across the floor and bed. Plastic bags lie like beached jellyfish on the carpet. I am slowly, but surely, unpacking my memories.
I always feel blue when I return from a trip. The sights, the people, the food, the freedom, the friends. As soon as the plane took off from Singapore, I knew they were lost to me. I was going back to the mundane. Back to the prison we call everyday life!
I didn't get past blogging about the first half of the first day of my trip. All along I wrote little notes in my head on how I would recount this or that ('...the bus driver pointed at the machine agitatedly and shouted, and for the life of me I couldn't understand what he was saying!'), but now that I'm back I've entirely lost the motivation. Oh well - maybe later?
For now I will bathe in the ephemeral warmth of my memories.

Day 1: Takeoff

My brother drives me to the airport before the sun rises, the sky still the colour of diluted Ribeena. In the silence of the car I run through in my head a checklist of things-to-bring (well, things I should have in my bags already): passport, plane ticket, shaver, toothbru... oh shit. I've come to realise that no matter how far in advance you've packed, or how thorough you are, there will always be something you forget to bring. Or maybe that's just me.
After a surprisingly quick check-in, I proceed to the departure lounge. On the way I am screened for knives, AK-47s, Tomahawks, and yes, even my hair gel is scrutinised suspiciously.
Soon it is time to board. Walking down the gangway, I suddenly have an image of myself as an astronaut striding solemnly in slow motion, the camera panning from around the back to the front and then zooming in on the white lights reflecting off the glass of my helmet. I arrive at my seat next to the window, and duly strap myself in. The air hostess, who is so beautiful she must be from another planet, goes through the safety procedures. 'If the warp drive should disengage unexpectedly, please use the oxygen masks....'
The plane taxis down the runway. The whine of the engines crescendo into a roar, and the plane accelerates over the tarmac. Rising like a large majestic bird, the world below me grows smaller and smaller; a new world awaits for this intrepid adventurer to explore.

Day 1: Touchdown

TBC.

My last day at work brings with it a list of other 'lasts':

• Last time raiding the fridge on Friday for Tim Tams, and then going to the level upstairs to steal more.
• Last time walking up to JR and saying: 'Yo, wa'sup homo!' (JR: 'Stop calling me homo!').
• Last time listening to Ernesto talk about his dreams of quitting the IT industry (Ernesto: 'Damnit IT is shit!') and starting an investment company.
• Last time stuffing my face with cake on birthday parties.
• Last time listening to Sean rant about how he almost scored a goal in soccer on the weekend ('...if I had just kicked it a fraction to the left...').
• Last time playing chess on the lounges downstairs.
• Last time laughing at Eddie and his pink jumpers ('It's called Fashion, Aidan, Fashion').
• Last time pretending that Ross has taken my wallet (he has the same cool folding wallet that I have).
• Last time boxing Jake in the face.
• Last time leaving weird and nonsensical voice messages on Nick's phone, like 'Hi...I just wanted to let you know that - wait, hold on...' [sound of rustling paper, continues for more than a minute].
• Last time staring across the harbour.
• Last time, last time.......
  

Sigh. Sentimentality always gets the better of me.

Because of the job-changing situation I've found myself with two weeks' free, so I've booked a flight to Singapore/Malaysia (13/8 - 22/8) where I'll be doing stuff like shopping, eating, walking around with a camera over my neck and visiting some old friends.
If anyone wants anything from overseas, please tell me now. 3...2...1... too late.

I'm changing jobs.
It wasn't an easy decision. I've been in this job, my first real job, for almost two years now. In that time, I've learnt many things and made many friends. To use a cliched term, I've felt like I was part of a family, and now to leave it all behind is almost heart-breaking.
It's hard to leave things when you've become comfortable with them. People naturally cling to old ways: the bed you sleep in with the creaking springs; the lover you can't abandon because of familiarity.
This could be a blessing, a new beginning. I hope it is a new beginning. God I fucking hope it is.

Incarcerated in a prison of frosted glass. My necktie is a hangman's noose, my suit-coat a straitjacket. Cufflinks pin me to the table.
They interrogate me. They want answers, the right answers - goddamnit they want it now! - but I sit there and babble incoherently. The questions keep coming, faster and faster, and now they're no longer a language I understand, but some evil shrinking spell, and I shrink further and further into my seat until I am but a slimy indistinguishable mess that slithers past the door and out of the room.

Today I discovered:
Demon wings have feathers,
Rain falls from white clouds,
Thorns hide in virgin snow.

I am slowly digesting in a pool of my own anger.

For a lot of people, work is just work. It's purely a means of earning some dosh, being a good little member of society, and giving you the illusion that you're actually worth a damn in your otherwise short, pathetic life. It's funny though that so many people spend so much of their time doing something they hardly find enjoyable. 'Why do you do it?' is the question often asked, and invariably you get responses such as 'for the money' or 'cos it seemed alright' or 'I don't know, my mum's a chicken'. It amazes me that these people can go into work day in day out for the next thirty, forty years of their life and pretend that everything is okay.
Well, everything is not okay for me. It's no secret that I have a disdain for IT - specifically, programming - and that dissatisfaction has been growing ever since I failed my first subject at uni. You might ask why I did IT at uni, and I'll give you the short answer: I intended to do mechanical/mechatronics engineering, but instead made the grave decision of going software. Argh. Now I'm sitting at my desk every day, writing lines and lines of crap code, making sure this value is coming through or that checkbox triggers something....
I don't know. I'm a practicable sort of person, and I can't really see or feel the tangible results of my work (I'm not sure if 'tangible' is the right word). A doctor heals people, puts the smile back. A real estate agent sells houses. A carpenter makes chairs. Me? I create computer programs. These programs allow the company to do things more efficiently, so that it can make more money. Compared to saving a life or building a house, it's not exactly up there with the list of things that benefit society or advance humankind. It doesn't help that I'm shit at what I do.
I guess, like 90% of the population that couldn't be fucked, I could continue what I'm doing, but I know I can't take it for much longer. Good enough is just not good enough - I've decided to do another degree. As to what degree - the sensible side of me tells me to do something like commerce/economics. The less-sensible side says science. The crazy side is screaming 'blood! more blood!' mechanical engineering, which I should have done at the start but is now practically impossible unless I consider quitting my job.
Argh...what to do, what to do...

'We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.' - Kurt Vonnegut

A young man sits at his desk and yawns. He feels hungover from lack of sleep, and his nervous eyes are sunken and glazed. He gazes outside his window, watching cars weave down the street like beetles and leaves rustle like torn paper on the pavement. Voices behind him disturb his thoughts, and he switches his attention back to his work. The screen flickers. The clock ticks. The office is a giant cog that turns for the sake of turning.
The man picks up a cube of Post-It notes that sit forlornly on his desk, and peels off the top layer. He rips off the sticky strip, and starts folding a boat. He twists a mast out of staples, and adorns a paper sail.
And then he is in the boat, drifting, drifting... sailing to wherever Post-It boats go. The world around him dissipates, and he falls asleep to the sound of paper waves.

After saving up through most of uni, I bought and finally received my brand new car last month. I know many people think it's a waste of money dumping so much money into something that depreciates in value faster than you can earn it, but for me, pitiful as it sounds, this has been one of my lifelong dreams.
My own car. No waiting till parents come home before going out. No fighting with family. No relying on others to get you there. My own travelling cocoon to space out in.
The Yaris (Yauris?) isn't the fastest or best-looking car in the world, but I've never been one to totally sacrifice practicality for style. Gets me from A to B comfortably, has little things like cupholders and good audio, and I'm happy.

Wow, nice bum...per.

Look at that great body.

Eject button. For those pesky passengers.

Psychedelic taillights sold separately.

it starts after dinner when you can't get online and you spend ages trying to fix it and it's late very late and you realise oh shit I have an 8 o'clock meeting tomorrow morning and so the next day when the alarm rings bright and early you turn it off and keep sleeping and when you do wake up it's oh shit almost 7 and you race out the door and catch the bus and catch the train while all the time trying to catch some sleep as the train rattles on and by the time you get off at the station it's already 8 and you run through the barriers and up the escalators and you get to the office and oh shit the meeting is already underway and you enter the room as inconspicuously as you can but the business sponsor eyes you disapprovingly and you mutter an apology and you sit down and try to follow what the hell they're talking about and you catch words like tendering and subcontractor and integration but otherwise you're not really listening and you're struggling to keep your eyes open fighting to keep yourself awake but oh man your eyelids are so heavy and you think about the cool forests and lovers and what about Hong Kong the fragrances the city lights the trams and you snap out of it and concentrate on the diagrams on the board but then you start drifting again and falling asleep and daydreaming and it's just an endless cycle and then midway your phone rings and you say excuse me and go outside to take it and it's your dad and he says sorry son I dented your car your brand new car when I opened my car door and it hit yours so sorry and you feel like swearing but you can't and you go back into the meeting room fuming and sitting there all you think about is how stupid can he be and how bad is the dent and what would happen if you threw one of these chairs through the window and the meeting just goes on and on and on and god you're so hungry you wish he would just shut up but no it just goes on and this continues for hours the staying awake the daydreaming the hunger until one of them says okay time for a lunch break but only for half an hour and on the way out the team leader says you need to ask more questions if you don't understand and what should come out as I don't really give a shit becomes I understand and lunch is soon over and you're back in the meeting room for another few hours of endless talk and you're beginning to hate the business sponsor guy because he's a jerk and talks to you like you're a kid and after more struggling to stay awake and dreaming of palm trees the meeting is finally adjourned and you feel free freedom and then you go back to your desk and put your head down and get to work because there's a shitload of things to do all piled up now and you work pretty late but before you go one of the managers wants to talk to you and he talks to you about your career plans and he asks you what you're good at and you think really I'm just a jack-off or is that a jack-of-all-trades and the basically he tells you your current career is going nowhere and eventually you leave the office but you can't go home because you need to return a leaking tent that you bought last week and after much hassling you get a credit note and now you're on the way home on a crowded train and your head is hurting and then you wait ages for the bus and the more you wait the more anxious you become and now you're on the bus home is where the flowers grow and you open the door and run up to your room and your head is pounding and when you enter your room a bomb explodes and there is blood splattered all over the walls and you think that's my blood and the room spins and you're falling and falling and somehow, yet somehow... you... feel... fine.

In my dream you touched my face,
Memories of old I did embrace,
Laughter cake, ice-cream fish,
When a lifetime with you,
Was my last dying wish.
How I long to lie by your side
In the room that smells of freshly-baked cookies!
My forbidden place;
My sweet, sweet mistake.
This is the past I can't retrace (if only I),
The demon I can't erase...

The critics have been raving mad about Swan Lake, so on the 3rd of March, Julia and I went to see what all the fuss was about. Having read all the reviews, I was pretty excited - I'd never been to a proper theatre/dance production before, let alone a ballet. This would make up for missing out on Phantom of the Opera (my mum had free tickets at the time, but I was young and stupid and said no) all those years ago, and the Lion King (a certain someone's fault) just recently. I told my workmate I was going, and that's when he told me: 'The cast is all guys.' Suddenly, all the enthusiasm I had for watching Swan Lake drained away. All guys! I picture a bunch of guys dressed in tutus and feathers prancing about on stage, or guys pretending to be women. Groan.
On the day, we were almost late for the performance. We managed to squeeze in just as the doors were closing, and seated ourselves in a theatre full of people. I was expecting the performance to be something akin to watching a movie, and hence just wore sneakers, jeans and a shirt. Most of the audience however was dressed in nice clothing - suits and evening gowns and dresses. Oh well. I settled down and watched the show unfold.
Swan Lake was, for lack of a better word, awesome. The dancers were sublime, gliding across the stage like swans on a lake (hohoho). Thankfully, there were girls (it was the swans that were all guys, a role normally reserved for females), and in short strappy dresses too! (Ouch! What was that for?)
What probably impressed me most besides the dancing were the sets. They were simply gorgeous. You could see that a lot of ingenuity, effort and painstaking design had gone into them. They really took you to the scene and made you feel like it was all too real - the neon lights in the bar, the stars outside the ballroom window, the full moon in a deserted park.
My main gripe with the performance was the lack of a live score. Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake will always be a classic, and the music played through the speakers was crystal clear, but I couldn't help but think (being the fussy prick I am) how much better the music would have been with a full orchestra playing. The performance was also a bit on the short side (bit over two and a half hours? - expected most theatre things to be longer), but I guess it's pretty tiring to be on stage for so long.
Anyway we both walked out of there extremely impressed, and now I'm hooked. I'll be waiting (and saving) for the next highly talked-about show, whenever it comes...

Sometimes you'll think you know someone well, and then they turn around and surprise you.
'I'm sorry. I didn't want it to happen this way... and there doesn't feel like there's been any closure...'
'Aidan - hadn't it already ended before we ended?'

When all is said and done, let me not look back with remorse and say: 'You were the one.'

It was Serena's birthday in February, and thus we decided to celebrate by having a day of much merriment on the 25th. First on the agenda: a three-hour karaoke session at K-World.
People are always afraid to put songs in or sing too wildly at the beginning; it takes a while before the playlist really starts growing, and increasingly more gusto is put into each song. After the inital warm-up, we were putting in songs by the second, so that by the end of the three hours, we still had another fifty or more songs left to sing. It was a real concert too - there was singing, dancing, and yes, even a bit lesbian action.
After the karaoke, we were all a bit frazzled and hungry. It was at this point that Monkey said: 'I feel like a German-style veal knuckle and a hearty stein of beer.' To which we replied: 'Well you sure don't look like one.' Very funny. Luckily for Monkey though, we had booked a table at the Rhinedorf, which, coincidentally, was a German restaurant specialising in things like veal knuckles and beer. And so off we went to the restaurant to meet up with the others who had been invited.














The singing gets emotional.

At the restaurant, the men amongst us (myself included) ordered the veal knuckle, whilst the lesser men (Sam, for example) ordered the smaller pork knuckle. Some of the girls ordered sausages and meat platters while Monkey, rescinding on his earlier decision, displayed his feminine side by opting for the chicken. By now we were famished, but fortunately it didn't take long for the food to arrive. And what food it was. The veal knuckles were simply enormous! They looked like they weighed a tonne and could be used as weapons of mass destruction.
It took almost two hours of constant carving and vigorous chewing for me to come close to finishing my meal, and even then there was at least a quarter of it left to eat. The others fared no better. Fingers numb, jaw muscles strained - we were well and truly stuffed (Monkey meanwhile continued to nibble daintily at his chicken). We hoisted the white flag, and the meat was taken away.
They say a person has two stomachs: one for food and one for dessert. With the 'food' stomach filled, it was time to work on the 'dessert' one with a gelato cake that had been ordered earlier. The cake looked gorgeous, but we didn't have much time to look at it before it was cut up and ravished. Oh well. Beauty is in the stomach of the beholder. Sigh...*burp*... a merry finish to a very merry, merry day.

Post-edit: I didn't eat for a few days afterwards.














'You rekon I'll be okay to drive?'













Serena tries to snort her meat.














'Hello? Can I speak to Veal Knuckle please?'


















Ze Good German.














Ze Cake.


















Ze End (of Ze Cake).

I've got a huge backlog of stuff I want to blog about, so I'll start with the stuff from last month.
On February 23rd, Monkey, Serena and I went to Damien Rice's concert at the Enmore. In case you don't know who Damien Rice is, he's this Irish guy who can sing, write poetry and play guitar. Really well. The concert, from beginning to end, was awesome.
Anyway, guess it's hard to describe what a concert sounds like in words, so I'll end this post with a few photos for you to ponder over.




























Next post: Aidan is kidnapped by a walking frankfurt.

'Why isn't the search working? Why isn't the customer name coming up? How come this field is highlighted?'
On he goes. I grit my teeth.
I want '...you to fix this...' to smack him in the face, again '...integration testing...' and again, and scream '...results from the database...' shut the fuck up while the blood pours down. 'Okay, so let's aim to get this out of the way by Tuesday.'
I sit back at my desk, seething, and calmly continue with my work.

Someone once told me that a day only goes by when you're asleep at night, which is why when you pull an all-nighter or don't sleep for two days, the days get jumbled up into one. If you stayed awake when the day of your birthday comes and goes, does that mean you will never get old?
I'd like to say 'thank you' to all my friends, and a bigger 'thank you' to those who remembered. You guys really made my day, and if you've made a difference to my day, then you've made a difference to my life. *loud applause*

Ahh, the Year of the Pig. Every zodiac sign has its time to shine, and this year it's the pig's (come on you pigs, get up and moving!). In spite of the bad press pigs get, they actually have quite a lot going for them. Pigs:

• Are very smart.
• Have orgasms that last 30 minutes.
• Taste nice in the morning with eggs.

If ever I reincarnate, please let me be a pig. *oink*

Are you happy, now?

I've often been asked this question. As soon as I tell anyone anything vaguely positive about my life, I get this question thrown at me. The question implies that, firstly, I was unhappy with things to begin with and, perhaps none-too-subtly, that I am somewhat hard to 'please'. It also assumes that I am now happy because of the latest affirmative developments. But how can I say I am happy now, or that I was happy before? Happiness is the pinnacle of one's existence, and with anything absolute, it must be viewed relatively. You can never really say this moment is happy when the next moment may be better. Only when I've drawn my last breath can I go back and say 'Yes, I was happy, then', and die in peace.
Funny though – when I answer in the negative, people will ask 'Why not?' accusingly, as if it were a crime to be otherwise. But without knowing who I am and how I feel, who are you to judge?

Happiness means different things to different people. A man could be happy labouring in a field, or unhappy working at a desk. A man could be happy with an ugly woman, or depressed with a beautiful one.

A simple life is an easy one, and a simple mind a content one. Have you ever heard the story of the frog in the well? This frog was born at the bottom of a well. He had water to drink and insects to eat. He crowned himself king of the world, and he was happy. Then one day, a bird landed on the top of the well. The bird told the frog all about the skies, the oceans, the rivers, the grasslands and the mountains. And the frog realised he was trapped forever within these dark walls.

You see, ignorance is bliss. You'd be happy with a cave, until you saw a house. You'd be happy with a meal, until you saw a feast. You'd be happy with a dollar, until you saw ten. It's human nature to continually strive for more, strive for something better, reaching further and further no matter how unattainable the goal. It's this desire that drives us, yet causes us grief.
I never fail to see the endless possibilities stretching before me, and how little I have traversed.

Are you feeling happy, punk? No.

January is coming to a close and this new year has already become old. Everything is chugging along, carried onwards by the weight of its own momentum. There really isn't anything that exciting to report. I'm one step closer to owning a car (fare thee well my dear money) and I've taken on a new 'role' in my job as a developer, ie. programmer, which is ironic considering I'm shit at it and I once vowed never to write another line of code again after I left uni.

I feel old. Several coincidental and quite unfortunate series of events have lead me to feel this way:

• These few weeks we've had a lot of our family friends' kids come over for swims and parties etc. When they talk about school it just makes me feel a little glum. The same way that looking at a slim person makes you feel fat.
• Roger Federer had already won 6 grand slams by this age.
• The 'men' at dragonboat were talking about zodiac signs. Was plesantly surprised to learn that a lot of them were born in '88.
• Stupid people keep talking about stupid marriage.
• Read a book where at the end the main character thinks about finding a wife and settling down. And he's only 18. Stupid book. Oh well it was written in the 60s.
  
• Watched a movie where the guy goes something like: 'When you're young, you think about all the things you can become. When you're old, you think about what you've become.' Stupid movie.

Life is so much simpler when you're a kid. All you need to figure out is whether this pre-cut puzzle piece fits with this other pre-cut puzzle piece, or whether your lego man should have black or red pants.
Yeah I know it's about time. Time to choose a path, time to walk down it? But each time I think about it, I start getting so...yawn..... sleepy......

Okay, so it's the new year, and what better way to start the new year than have New Year's Resolutions!

#1 Buy a car
This so-called New Year's Resolution has been around for a long time. I've finally saved up enough money for it, and I know which car to get. Now if only I could find the time to go to the dealership, and also bring myself to handing over my hard-earned cash.

#2 Earn more money
I'm worth more than a few peanuts, aren't I?

#3 Backpack around China
This is another one of my unfulfilled dreams. My parents think I'm crazy, saying I'll probably be kidnapped by kung-fu beggars and get sold to man-eating tribeswomen. For me, the only problem is taking time off work, and moolah. Although #2 sure will help in this regard.

#4 Stress less
Working is stressful, purely for the fact that the free time you used to have is gone. Add to that stress from home, stress from relationships, and yeah, you get the picture. Kaboom.

#5 Save more
Chances of this happening = #2 — #1 — #3.

#6 Sleep more
I...must stop...walking around...like a zombie. I must stop falling asleep on the train and hitting my head on the walls. I must stop hiding behind my monitor pretending to be awake and working. I must stop being startled when someone walks up behind me and wakes me from my microsleep. I must not look like I've been taking drugs. Crap, it's already getting late...

#7 Gain weight
Now that I've started dragonboat again, hopefully I can add some mass to my already substantial frame. Ha. Haha.

#8 Be Happy
#1 + #2 + #3 + #4 + #5 + #6 +#7. If only it was so easy.

As I watched the fireworks exploding across the harbour, signalling the arrival of yet another year, I suddenly felt weary. I'd seen it all before - a year ago, two years ago, stuck in an endless cycle of dejavu that will play out forevermore.
And people will say to you: 'Happy New Year,' and, 'I hope this year is a good one,' like broken records in endless loops.
How do you measure a year?
By the money you take?
The love you make?
The hearts you break?
The bells come too soon, once again.