Traits.

They say traits are something you’re born with. They say that the moment you emerge into the light of the world, your life is laid out before you. There are no junctions or forks in the road, they say. Only bends and sharp corners. It is, after all, life. There is no human element in life. Your path is already chosen for you. Who you are, what you do, where you go. All set out neatly before your eyes. However, what if, what if you could break away from the path? What happens then? Does one simply go insane, as I would imagine? Does one degenerate into a husk of a person, less than human? Maybe that is how those who are mentally unstable are formed. Maybe.

I believe that I have traveled down this road. I used to know what I wanted, where I wanted to go. Now, I’m not so sure. Life seems to have dealt me an interesting hand. Maybe, if we could look back. Look back at our actions. Maybe it’s just karma. After all, nothing comes without a price. Maybe that’s how traits are formed. Your traits are all just based on your karma. With every action comes an equal and opposite reaction, or so they say. Does this mean that your attitude towards life, your personality, all of it is based on your past life or past actions? That doesn't even begin to make sense.

It is a human fault, I suppose, that we only see the best in ourselves. Very rarely do we look at our own visages in the mirror and think of what there is to be corrected. Very rarely do we stare into our own eyes and attempt to pry away at the layers covering our souls. Very rarely do we ever contemplate our past mistakes. The past is the past, after all. We need to live in the now and look forward to the future. But sometimes, sometimes we can correct the future by fixing the past. I cannot even begin to count the number of mistakes I have made in my life, small yet significant mistakes.

Thinking about these things can drive a person to the brink. I do believe that I am at the edge, afraid to look over lest I fall over, yet afraid to return lest I am shunned for my cowardice. I believe that there is no place for me. Lacking the traits to be a contributing member of society, I am a mere shadow, who spends too much time on the Internet behind the veil of seeming anonymity. Sometimes, I do long to tear away the veil, but the longing never turns to actual action. Maybe cowardice is just a trait I have. After all, they say traits are something you’re born with.

Title.

Night. My favorite time of day. It is a time where I can be alone, with nothing but my thoughts. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some sort of loner, in fact, I enjoy being with a crowd. Note the usage of “with” and not “a part of”. Most days, I long to be on the sidelines, a mere spectator as people talk, debate, and bond. I wish I could just be the silent companion, giving input only when input is needed. 

Most people know me as what you would call a chatterbox. I resent that title. I speak a lot only to make up for the lack of voices surrounding me. In an age where most of my acquaintances, yes, acquaintances not friends, where most of my acquaintances seem to be preoccupied with other people or maybe other things on their respective plates, I feel lonely. Not lonely, but alone. 

This might seem a little needy and attention-seeking, but if that’s the way it has to be, so be it. I will not pull any punches. I am a needy person. I feel starved of attention, thus I crave it. My behavior  my antics, my writing. All of them a method with which I attempt to attract attention. That is not to say that I do not have passion for these things, it is just that there is an ulterior motive. 

I have come to notice, in recent times, that I seem to be the one initiating conversation with people. Oh, people do come to me, but only when they need something, be it a helper, a guide, or a partner in a game. Not once, has anyone ever come to me for trivial matters. People who know me will realize that I do come to them for trivial matters, and they most likely think that I am merely a pest, an irritating specimen, as my mother would say. I too, realize that. 

But maybe, just maybe, I am looking for someone like that. Someone who feels the same way. A kindred spirit. Someone to call “friend”. Friends. The concept seems alien to me. I have read of these people, I have made my own observations from the sidelines, yet I cannot seem to find anyone who meets my criteria. Maybe I am aiming too high. Maybe I am being unrealistic. I probably am, stuck in a world of romanticism as I am. 

At this point, I have already written 404 words, and have come to a complete halt, which some may find ironic. But now is not a time for joking. In fact, there never was a time for joking, at least not for me. I should go now. I should do something productive. Yet, my fingers continue to tap away at the keys, putting words on an electronic page. It seems that the only place in which I have friends is the internet. Or do I? After all, who wants a needy, annoying person as a friend? In fact, who needs friends? What have they ever done for you? Honestly, why bother. Why bother at all.

feelsbadman.jpg

Hello there.

As you can see, some changes have been made to the blog. One, background changes. Two, my name. Anyway, that's irrelevant. Or is it? I suppose so. So, what shall we write about today? I've already covered sarcasm, obviously covered randomness, gone through cliffhangers, burnt pass narratives, and done the boring stuff. Which leaves us with one thing.    A sad story. Well, I wouldn't say sad.  Maybe a little sad, but more reflective in nature really.

About eleven years ago, yours truly stepped into the magical world of education. It was an amazing time, filled with unicorns and human spiders. Eventually, I grew up, as you can see. No longer was I a child, but I became a root vegetable. Not really. Anyway, fast forward to tonight. I sit here, tapping away, but for what reason? Nothing particular to say the least. It's just that for a moment there I felt a little melancholic that I might never be in school for the rest of my life come next year. But who cares? This is taking a very odd turn. Let's head somewhere else.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if superheroes weren't superheroes? If the events that made them superheroes followed the laws of logic? This was inspired by a few people who I will not name for fear of over-inflating their already over-inflated egos. No offense, guys.

Let's start off with the obvious culprit. Spiderman. What if, the magical radioactive spider had done nothing? Where would he be? Would he still be nerdy Peter Parker, still a loser? Of course not.

He'd be dead.

Moving on, Batman. Bruce Wayne lost his parents and became a magical ninja. What if things had turned out the other way? What if the murder of his parents had not compelled him to become a man of the dark? Simple. He'd be the rich junkie that brings a small knife everywhere he goes and calls it "protection". 

Sooner rather than later, he'd be dead.

Next up, Captain America. What if America's favorite superhero wasn't s super? Would he end up dead as well, after enlisting in the army to fight the Nazis? Would people find a scrawny soldier dead in a trench next to the rifle he couldn't lift? Obviously not. He'd be at home, unable to even join the army because of his size. Eventually, he'd die by suicide because of not being able to serve his country. 

Yep, he'd be dead.

Our fourth superhero to go under the microscope is Superman. This one is an easy one. Dead because of the horrible rocket crash? Nope. Dead because he survived a horrible rocket crash without anyone noticing? Nope.

He doesn't exist.

Our final candidate: The Incredible Hulk. Overexposure to gamma radiation? 

He'd be dead.

You Can Never Catch Me, Even If You Try.

Warning: High sarcasm content. But you already knew that.

Catch Us If You Can, also known as Young Boy Flees From The Authorities, is an amazing book. It truly is, one of the best books I have ever read. These are some of the things I liked, no loved, about the book.


Firstly, the concept of the story. The story begins with a 12-year old boy named Rory looking after his "Granda", which seems to be a  misspelling of the word "Grandpa". It seems to be a masterful effort to make the novel more realistic by putting in a main character who is referred to by everyone in this endearing fashion. Seriously. Everyone calls him Granda, even the newscasters. After all, its not as if there is a written record of his actual name that they can use. Besides, Granda always sounds much more awesome than say, Joe. Anyway, back to the story. It seems that this Granda is a badgering old coot, unable to so much as put on his own slippers without falling into Narnia. As such, it is predictable that Rory ends up being the one looking after Granda. Thus, hilarity ensues, involving a chip pan, apples, and a fire. As a result, Granda is hospitalized and Rory is put in a children's home. They even transfer Granda to an old folks' home, ad no one bothers to tell Rory. So, when Rory finds out, what does he do?


Obviously, the answer to the problem is running away. Rory sneaks into the old folks' home undetected and spirits Granda away. It's not as if they have security guards, do they? Those old people can't even run, why would security be needed? And yet Granda does run, fleeing into the forest. Rory, who by a stroke of luck has a friend who owns a caravan, takes Granda to said caravan where they live on tinned rations that have inexplicably been left in the caravan for at least six months. Because you never know when you’re going to go caravanning. Due to a leak of information, Rory and Granda find themselves cornered by the police who claim that they “only want to help”. Obviously they’re both going to correctional facilities. The police trip over their own feet in enthusiasm to catch these hardened criminals, and Rory is helped along the way by a group of travellers with nothing better to do than to help a grandfather and his grandson.  They are even brought to a little glen where they have a party, just like in the good old days. Except that everyone has a handphone. Some party, eh? Anyway, soon the police get wind of them and they're on the road again. 


This time, they flee by means of a train. Because no one looks at other people on trains. They are soon, predictably enough, spotted and flee. More hilarity ensues in which an old man hot-wires a car and assaults a youth. Soon, the car runs out of petrol but luckily, the nearest petrol station is a deserted one. In the middle of nowhere. Which is great for business. Unsurprisingly, they are caught yet again, but the person who catches them, who is creatively named Rab, decides to help them. Oh, not by taking them to the authorities where a freezing Granda will receive medical attention, but he decides to help them get to Liverpool where Rory's father happens to live. It does seem a little strange though, that a police force who cannot track down an old man and his young grandson can track down a man who has disappeared from Rory's life for 12 years and whose only record lists him as Granda's son with nobody knowing where he has relocated to. I wonder how they found him. Google, maybe?


So Rab sets up a chain of people consisting of his girlfriend and his girlfriend's sister to take Rory and Granda to Liverpool. Did I mention that this chain took only a few hours to set up? Soon, Rory and Granda are on the road again, singing Frank Sinatra songs and talking about the French Resistance. Because they can. Meeting with the next part of the chain, Granda finds out that they are going to Liverpool to meet his son and rages obstinately because he does not agree with this part of the plan. The next day, Granda becomes very ill but Rory still refuses to go to a doctor because that would defeat the purpose of running away. Well, I suppose that Granda dying also defeats the purpose of running away, but the thing is, Granda cannot die because God Mode is always on in kids' novels.


Concerned, Norma, whose house Rory and Granda happen to be holing up in, calls the police. Rory panics and decides to flee based on word from a young girl who calls him to tell that the police are coming. He runs with Granda into a forest where the sickly Granda finally gives out and dies. It seems as though Rory's plan is doomed to fail. But wait! Rory finally goes to the police and Granda is saved! But is it too late? 


Obviously, Granda does not die. He recovers well and meets Rory's dad and his new family. A happy ending arrives, and we arrive at the conclusion of the story. Rory and Granda leave Scotland forever and settle down in Liverpool. They enjoy the relative luxury of Britain's social service, which was strangely absent in Scotland. In other words, they live happily ever after. 


Or do they?


The End.


What a great book, full of suspense and surprises. It even makes sense, in a twisted sort of way. I think. Oh well.

D.A.I.S.O. (plus, pics and prizes!)

Remember what I wrote yesterday? Well, that was yesterday. Maybe this might sound a little odd, but then again, the sun is out. Today, I bring to you, pictures, pictures, some words, and more pictures. Here we go!

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the nation's Capital to go for a prize presentation. Read all about it here:
http://poopoutyourideas.blogspot.com/2012/05/monkey-excrement-monkey-excrement.html

Enough of that, what I'm posting here is basically what I did on the trip. Well, actually, no. Did I win? No. I just placed in the top 20, which is pretty good by my horribly low standards. So, did I get anything? Yep. I got lots of things. First though, I would like to apologize for the bad pictures. I'm not a good photographer. This guy is:
https://www.facebook.com/winsernlim
(P.S. Dude, free bump!)

Ooh. I wonder what's in the bag? Let's open it and see, shall we?

First up, a runners-up certificate! That's nice.

Apparently, I'll be amazed if I study in Ireland. Amazed in cursive handwriting, no less.

 Added to that, a beautiful pair of notebooks with pens attached. 

For purposes unknown, I'll be making a pen count. So far, Pens: (2)

Yet another pen, this one in a nice case. Yum. Pen count: (3)

I wonder what's in here? Chocolate? I'd like some chocolate.

Ooh. Mysterious box. Very very mysterious. 

Wait, Parker? COULD IT BE? No way!

Oh. It's just a pair of Parker pens. I was honestly hoping for Parker chocolates. Before anyone cries bull, 

http://www.parkers-cakes.com/

I NEVER LIE.

 Pen count: (5)

Another pen, this one made of recycled materials. Cool, and it saves the Earth. 

How the pen accomplishes that is anyone's guess , though. Pen count: (6)

A badly taken picture of a pendrive which contains information about Irish universities. 

Any takers for this information? Leave a comment. Pen count: (7) 

Wait, no. Pendrives aren't pens. Pen count: (6)

YET ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS ITEM. 

THIS LOOKS LIKE CHOCOLATE, DOESN'T IT?

Oh. It's a sports encyclopaedia. It looks cool, though. Wait, what's that on the cover?

Oh. It's our first Prime Minister kicking a ball, and no doubt having a ball. 

But wait, LOOK AT THAT!

Her head looks Photoshopped on for some reason.

Last but not least, a fancy bookmark. This gift was truly the best for me. 

Why? Because IT'S A BOOKMARK. 

And now, for the obligatory group shot.

TADAAH!

Before I left for home, I made a quick stop to the Pavilion KL. Nice place, very classy, but the one thing that shocked me was the presence of a certain shop. Amidst the glitz and glam of the upmarket shopping, there was the most epic store to ever be erected on the face of the planet. Without further ado, I present to you:

DA DA DA DUMMMMMMM!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4IRMYuE1hI

(Keep that playing through the rest of the post. Don't laugh at the first face you see in the video.)

Walking down the aisles, I was confronted by all manner of epicness, but some more epic than others. For those of you not in the know, refer to this:

http://poopoutyourideas.blogspot.com/2012/03/second-post-in-three-days.html

Well, here we go.

Smoking time! Puff a smoking, but be careful to be over!

Just so you know, these are ashtrays.

Soy sauce candy, anyone? Full of salty goodness!

THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.

One whole punch. Guaranteed to hit your enemies anywhere,

in the face, in the stomach, in the groin, ANYWHERE!

The colours are blinding me. Oh wait, what colours?

How honest. Wait, these aren't square! 

WHY YOU LIE? WHY YOU LIE TO MY FACE?

Apparently, no one knows how to play "Move A Ball"

Oh wait, I get it now. Move "A" Ball.

Daiso. I reiterate, best store ever. Do drop by if you have the time. They are guaranteed to either make you laugh or cry, depending on what kind of murderous psychopath you are. Well, that's all for today. Long post, I know, but hey, you guys didn't really read much. And everyone knows, reading is bad for eyesight. Now, to get me some glasses for show...

PEN COUNT: (6)

A block of cheese.

Hello again, readers. You know, it's kinda funny that I greet all of you in every post when none of you actually respond to me. Oh well. So, originally I planned to write a long post on what I did in the capital when I went down about two weeks ago. But then again, I figured that you guys don't really want to know about that. So I abandoned my blog for a little while before deciding to come back today to give all of you post #31. Yes, it is the 31st post. Even I'm shocked. This is the first time anything I've ever done has gotten so far. Oh well. Anyways, here it is. I figured some of you might enjoy if I made a (triumphant?) return to the Turtle Theory series. Or maybe not. I think it would be best if we abandoned the series. I suppose it will now forever reside in the pile of stuff I could never follow through with, which happens to be a huge pile. Anyways, shall we begin?

If wishes were horses, I'd need a stable. If wishes were horsepower, on the other hand, I'd have a Ferrari. All these wishes and wants, floating around in my head. Will I ever fulfill these wishes? Why am I even bothering you people about my wishes? Who cares? Life is better enjoyed not knowing and not caring, just like a seal. Aren't seals just the most uncaring creatures alive? They can see a family member get eaten and return to the scene of the murder the next day like nothing happened. Wait, does that make policemen seals? I doubt it. 

Oh, you caught me rambling there. Honestly, I don't feel in the mood to entertain you people, but the show must go on. What shall I write here today? Maybe I won't write anything. Maybe I'll just keep tapping away at the keyboard aimlessly, leading you people on. Or maybe I could write something fantastic. Something amazing. Something that will knock your socks off. But then again, why should I? Why do I even blog in the first place? Now that I think of it, it just seems arrogant and stuck-up of me. Look at me, I write stuff! Is that even a good thing? I lead you readers here and you read things that I have written. In fact, most everything I've ever written was rubbish. 

Maybe I should just quit while I'm not too far behind. Is there even a point? Do people even read these posts? Or am I just throwing out these words as pretty little flowers on the wall, as a background to your life? Why do I even bother? Do I care? Not really. Do you care? I doubt it. So, where's the actual blog post mentioned earlier? Not here, apparently. Maybe all you're reading is a tug of war between me and my subconscious self. Maybe. Or maybe it's just doom, gloom, and writer's block of cheese. I mean writer's block. I'm hungry. Goodbye.

Monkey Excrement, Monkey Excrement

So, yeah. I finally decide to venture into the realm of COMPETITIVE WRITING. About a month ago, I took part in a writing competition. I'm not sure anyone was even aware of this. And yeah, I might have won. Well , I am invited to a Tea Ceremony with 19 others on the shortlist.  I held off posting this because... um... I'm bad like that? Well, now here it is. The story. Hope you enjoy it, guys. And fingers crossed that I win when I go down to KL on Tuesday!

Details on the competition here: http://thestar.com.my/dublin/


The Sunday morning dawned drab and grey, rather anticlimactic, really. Moody grey clouds chased each other across an equally grey sky. Leaning against a red brick wall, Adam took a deep breath. The air smelled of pollutants and the smells of a city waking up for the day. In the sky, the sun struggled to get its orange rays to penetrate the wall of cloud. Adam considered lighting up a cigarette to lighten his mood but decided against it for once. All was still. All was calm. All was boring. No one was about yet. He rested his head against the wall and brooded. For once, he thought, I’d like to have something interesting happen to me. Something that will get me noticed. Something exciting and awesome. 

Adam’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of car tyres squealing from down the road. A blue station wagon was careering towards him. Adam casually but purposefully took a step to the side, all the time keeping his eyes on the car. The car swerved and jinked down the road, finally pulling up to a stop right next to a convenience store. A heavily bearded man got out slowly and ducked into the store. Adam watched with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. Once more, all was quiet. Suddenly, three loud reports shattered the silence and a glass window. Adam felt his heart rate rise, was this going to be it? Was this the exciting event that would change his life forever? He heard another loud report, this time mixed with the sound of a cry of pain.


Five minutes earlier,


Crowley was a cashier in a convenience store. The job did not pay much, but then again it was not a very taxing job. Right now, Crowley was reading a magazine from the rack right next to him. His horn-rimmed glasses were on the tip of his nose and his brow was wrinkled in concentration. Sub-consciously, he raised a hand to sweep a lock of curly ginger hair away from his eyes while imagining himself sitting in a luxury sports car burning rubber down a highway with the top down. He paid no attention to the burly man who staggered into the shop. Although it was a little early for the hung over people to come in for their daily fix, strange people had strange habits. He bopped his head to non-existent music, hoping the man wouldn’t disturb him. 

All of a sudden, the magazine was ripped away and Crowley found himself staring into the barrel of a pistol. He swallowed nervously and blinked slowly. The man shouted, “Give me all the money!” and fired three shots in random directions just to get his point across. The sound of the shots still ringing in his ears, Crowley stumbled over to the cash register, pulled out the cash drawer, and dumped the contents on the table in front of the man, who promptly started scooping it into a small sack. Sensing his chance, Crowley reached over and tried to smash the man’s face into the counter but he was too slow, his reflexes dulled by too many hours of mindless work. The man took two smart steps back and pulled his trigger in surprise as Crowley grabbed the nearest item available, a stand of lollipops, and hurled it at him. The bullet slammed into Crowley’s chest, sending him slumping to the floor while he moaned in pain. As all grew dark, his last thought was, How will I clean up this mess now?


A minute later,


Jack was feeling the blood pump through his veins strongly. For the first time in a long time, he felt alive. His fingers tingled with the memory of the gun that was clenched tightly in them a minute ago. His nose was dripping blood, broken from the impact with the plastic stand that the cashier had thrown at him. His sack jingled with empty beer bottles and the rich sound of coins. The gun was not with him anymore, it was currently residing at the bottom of a trash can, covered by anything and everything that he could grab from the front counter of the store. As he slid into the front seat of the stolen car, Jack felt a sudden surge of exhilaration. It actually worked, he thought to himself. Why didn’t I think of doing this earlier? As he sat in the car, he was suddenly aware of a green sedan turning down the road, coming towards him. Panic took hold of him and refused to let go. He realized that if they saw him, the people in the sedan would put two and two together. 


Slamming the door shut, he tried to stick the keys in the ignition but in his current inebriated state, it was all he could do to keep the keys from slipping to the floor. Meanwhile, the green sedan was coming ever closer. As it drew level with his car, Jack instinctively crouched to obscure his face. Thankfully, the sedan passed by without missing a beat, barely slowing down as it passed the station wagon. Jack breathed a sigh of relief. He stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. As the car coughed into life, he noticed a man standing against a wall on the opposite side of the road. The man’s face was ashen, his eyes telling. There was no doubt that he had seen everything. The panic, which had been dissipating just a few moments ago, flooded back into Jack as the colour drained from his face. Shifting the car from park to drive, he floored the accelerator just as the man started to cross the street. The only thought coursing through his mind was, Please let me get out of here in one piece!

Adam watched the station wagon bearing down on him as he crossed the street with mild interest. With the station wagon mere feet away from him and the driver seemingly unable to stop, Adam‘s mind flashed back to what he had just seen, his brain replaying the entire scene for him, albeit oddly enough in the third person. As the car slammed into him like a stampeding rhinoceros, Adam felt, rather than heard the bones in his right leg shattering under the impact as he adopted a pose less suited towards a man who is going to make a police report but more suited towards a man who will shortly become a chalk line drawing. As the rest of his body was dragged underneath the car to end his life, he thought to himself, Well, this was exciting!