For Once In My Life...

.. I'm can be completely at ease with collecting my examination results. Nothing makes you more detestable than being liberated from the burden everyone else still carries, but I'm gonna go ahead and put it out there anyways - I can laugh in the face of Cambridge now, because I don't need the grades for university anymore.

So next week, when everyone's on the verge of nervous breakdowns, I can sing a merry tune and skip my way to school. I'll even be flashing my brightest and cheeriest smile, but only at those least likely to turn violent, of course. Boy oh boy, I can hardly wait. The ole 'holding your baby for the first time' nonsense will have to step aside, for 'reveling in the pain of others while you're free as a bird' will soon become known as the greatest joy a human being can ever experience.

Unlike Sue Sylvester, I don't believe emotional outbursts should only be reserved for pain caused by physical exhaustion. Seeing an almost 20 year old boy cry, now *that* redefines sadistic pleasure.

"Aww, don't cry! I actually got even lower than you did. I should be the one crying." I'd say, as I lightly pat his shoulder.

"Really?" Sniff goes the pathetic creature. "How much did you get?"

"Oh, I failed the major stuff. Arn't I a poor dear?" Cue the doe eyed look.

"Oh wow, yours really is bad.."

"Yup, but you wanna know something really funny? I already got into an American college! I'm sure you'll make it *somewhere*. Okay, toodles!"

Those who have pissed me off in the past better watch out. I *will* hunt you down. In your moment of despair and hopelessness, I will swoop in to comfort you and make you open up to me, after which I would tear you apart when you're most vulnerable. Let's see how smart a mouth you have, when your innards are lying strewn across the hall, with vultures and rats already feeding on your soon-to-be-dead body.

Wow. The 'too early to be drinking' warning actually does make sense.

I'm being such a complete saint about this largely due to my track record of having a constant stream of disappointing grades. My parents arn't the 'oh, you tried your best, it's alright' types. It's more common to hear "what do you mean 'not very good?'. This is a TOTAL DISASTER!", with the dragging of the 'total', till it sounds like two separate words. Granted, they're not exaggerating, but hearing such devastating words used to describe your academic career can have detrimental effects to your general psych. Didn't you always hate the kid who never frowned over his grades? Yup, that was never me. Naturally I'm not going to let go of this prime opportunity to finally be the one that didn't have to care.

Nah, it's just cause I like being a bitch.

You're A Boilermaker!

Those words screamed at me in bold, from that little blue MSN notification box that pops up with a 'du-dup' every time you receive an email. You're A Boilermaker! - from Purdue University.

It was as though someone had reached into my chest with an ice-cold hand, and sqeezed the life out of my poor heart, as my eyes scanned through the email.

'With best-value rankings in Kiplinger's Personal Finance, SmartMoney Magazine and the Princeton Review, Purdue is among the nation's best investments in higher education. And now that you're admitted, it's time to learn more about everything Purdue has to offer you."

I read and reread the email. 'They must be going nuts,' I thought. First of all, they're calling me names. I'm pretty sure a boilermaker isn't something along the lines of a compliment. Second of all, it is way too early to be receiving acceptance letters. I mean, the application deadline is in March, and it's only February 13. I was convinced that this was a mass email sent to everyone, and that by 'now that you're admitted', they mean 'when you're admitted'. Silly college, I thought. They even linked a video to me, where a girl was giving a welcome message.

"Hi!" The scarily cheerful girl said to the camera. "Congradulations! I heard about your admission to Purdue!" This was just going great. I hadn't even heard about it, and she has?!

I was in a complete lunatic frenzy. While this could be a total misunderstanding, I keep thinking how they couldn't have used such definite words when telling someone that they're accepted, when in reality they're not. I then, with an audible gasp, noticed another earlier email from the 'Liberal Arts Honors Program at Purdue University'.

'Congratulations on your outstanding high school performance and your admission to Purdue University! We look forward to welcoming you to the campus. As an outstanding beginning student in the College of Liberal Arts, you are eligible to register for Honors courses...'

IT'S TRUE!

If my dad and sister weren't there in the room as well, I would have started rolling on the ground in joy. (I don't know why though.. it's like being caught on fire. The whole 'Drop and Roll' thing firemen like to teach.) A huge unbelievable burden has finally been lifted. The months of writing essays, researching schools, compiling material to send, chasing teachers for CCA records and testimonials, the SATs, the one month teaching in China, the filling up of all those application forms., not to mention the sleepless nights wondering about how I could kill myself if no school took me... All led up to this.

Most importantly, I now have not a care in the world what my A'Levels results are. It was my moment of triumph, my glory and vindication. It was as though every last piece has finally fallen into place. I could just burst into joy, into a million golden sparkling bubbles.

'Congrats!' My dad says. 'You must be thrilled!'

'Meh. It's alright.'

The plan now is to leave in July, to make it in time for their one day Summer Transition, Advising, and Registration (STAR) program. After which, I would have more than a month there while I wait for school to begin on the 25th of August. Im thinking of finally fulfilling my dream of looking for a real life Taylor the Latte Boy, so all the Starbucks in Indiana better watch out.

I'm under the Department of Sociology, and it offers 'Sociology' and 'Law & Society' as majors. The obvious choice would be the latter, so when people ask me what I study, I can say 'Oh, not much~~ *Law*' while giving that condescending 'half-smile and a nod'. Yup, this is why I'm going college.

Miss me very much, darhlings.

Night Safari

There's something to be said about four 18 to 21 year-olds going to a zoo to celebrate a birthday. Some call it childish foolery, but I prefer to think we're recapturing the innocence of youth.

Hailed as the world's first night safari (I wouldn't expect anything less, given Singapore's obsession to be the best, the first, the fastest, the least corrupt.. the list goes on. They say feisty little super-power, I say Napoleon Complex.) , it boasts a variety of nocturnal creatures from all over the world. We took a tram ride (because our frail 20 year old bodies can't take the strain) around the place, where a guide points out the animals around us. The best part is, there's nothing separating those beasts from us, apart from a few low bushes. It gives me a thrill knowing the rhinoceruses, elephants and hippopotamuses can just come crashing into the tram and kill us. It makes me very happy to stare death in the face like that.

If they do come running at us, I sincerely hope that the guide with her so-artificial-you're-sure-she-can't-decompose way of speaking gets trampled first, just so that "Well, what do we have here. You guys are soooo lucky! Rhinocerusus ramming into the second compartment.. This almost never happens!" wouldn't be the last thing I hear before I die.

The animals are segmented according to their original habitats, and the tram took us to places like 'South America', 'India', 'Africa' and so on. As opposed to zoos where the animals are kept behind prison-like bars, these were free to roam around enclosures built to resemble the wild environment. As much as I'd like to pretend that I'm really seeing these animals where they ought to be, a sense of sadness still creeps in, triggered by the deep stare of an elephant. The unmoving giant stood facing the track, and stares as the tram edges by its enclosure. I turn to look at it, and found myself face to face with animal. The elephant is obviously very much aware that all these tram-loads of people are not supposed to be intruding into his mealtime, nor is the annoying voice asking people to look left at the 'majestic beast of the Indian jungles'. No matter how comfortable or easy their lives are at the zoo, the fact remains that they're prisoners, put on display primarily for the purpose of collecting revenue.

Sure, there were no lack of conservation messages rammed down the visitors' throats, and their efforts for the environment can be seen, but it just felt to me as if they were trying to put out a bush fire with a glass of water. The illusion of a jungle was completely shattered when the tram rounded a bend, where the bright lights of the city can be seen clearly in the distance, behind the giraffe enclosure.

By the end of the tram ride, I was sufficiently dizzy from all the 'Look to the left! Look to the right! Left again! Oo bird on the tree, 5-o'clock! Rat to the right!', and was quite ready to leave the artificial tribal village behind.

63 million was spent on building the night safari, but I don't think you can put a price tag on the experience of seeing an endangered animal, perhaps for the last time. Actually, you can. That's $32 I'm never getting back.

360 Degrees of Aggravation

I don't get some people's fascination with roller-coasters. Hordes of thrill seekers (or the suicidal folk, as I like to call them) stand in line for hours at a time, all the while whining about how long it was taking, as if they were dying to get themselves strapped onto a speeding cart on a rickety suspended track. Although modern roller coasters are usually made of steel, there are still some constructed with wood. I find that nugget of information slightly disturbing, to say the least.

I don't know about you, but I always felt claustrophobic when the plastic brace lowered itself onto the passenger's chest and locks you in. The only motivation for me to actually go on a roller-coaster is the chance to brag about it; I don't actually enjoy the ride. The twisting and loops are not that bad, it's the free-fall feeling you get when the unstable contraption plunges almost vertically down that gets me. For that five or sex seconds, I'd be completely convinced I was going to die. A primal scream of utter terror (in retellings, I would say it's a yell of triumph and exhilaration) finds its way out of my lungs, as my face contorts into an expression I can only describe as trepidation-personified.

You see how I would much rather be stuffing my face into candy floss than to subject myself to such torment.And I say stuffing my face, because literally the entire face gets into the floss at some point. You can never just eat it. It gets on your chin, your cheeks, your fingers, your eyebrows.. until it gets to a point where you're just snarling and tearing the candy floss apart while shoving it into your open mouth. Some say people look their worst after childbirth. I disagree. It is the ragged, panting, crazed look of candy floss eaters that are most frightening to me. Traces of pink and blue are still lingering on their faces, and they would hold their fingers up in a claw position because of the stickiness of the candy. If there was ever a massacre of the candy-folk, that would be how the mass murderer looks like.

The favorite theme park I've been to is the Warner Brothers one, over in Australia. Not for the crazy rides, although I can't remember exactly if there were any crazy rides at the WB park, but for the thrill of seeing movie characters come to life. Yeah yeah, I know they're underpaid and sweaty actors underneath the costumes, but it never stopped me from squealing "Harry Potter! You've really come to Hogwarts!" in a faux British accent and chasing him up and down the alleys. Beautiful alleys they are, too. Cobbled streets and antique-y streetlamps that make you feel as if you were taking a stroll in one of your favorite movies.

Needless to say, I can hardly wait for Universal Studios Singapore to finally open in march.

Showers of Honeydew and Cherry

As a kid, I used to hate taking showers. I would protest and grumble as the clothes off my back were ripped off by mom, and I was pushed into the shower. Perhaps I found it a waste to wash off all the grime and dirt diligently accumulated throughout the day, or perhaps I didn't want my fragile soul and nubile young body exposed to the violent, pedophilic spirits that roamed the washroom. Either way, showering was one of the least favorite things of mine to do.

Now, I can't get enough of it. I eagerly anticipate every night, where I would get my well deserved cleansing of the body and soul. Showering has become not just a mundane task, but an entire ritual dedicated to pleasing myself in all my nakedness.

The first thing I do is to stare deep into the bathroom mirror. I closely examine my face in a trance-like state, occasionally tilting my head to get a better view of my jawline and bone structure. I frown at blemishes yet to be erased by Annie's needle, giggle at funny faces I make, and occasionally do the 'album-cover' pout, a come-hither look I was determined to perfect by the time I get my first album photo-shoot.

The clothes come off next. If I'm feeling extra sexy, I hum a tune from 'Cabaret' as I remove articles of clothing, all coordinated to the swaying hips, of course. You are very welcome for the visual image you now have. Reality almost always brings me crashing down to Earth after all the clothes are gone. I would then quickly hurry away from the mirror and the offending sight.

The initial contact of hot water against skin is pleasure akin to the revered orgasm. Water trickles down your back, tickling the areas which are not wet yet, then provides that blissful cocoon of steaming liquid nirvana. My left hand automatically rubs my chest, for no apparent reason other than habit. I always wet my body before my hair, and I do that as quickly as possible, none of the slow-mo-almost-sex-scene-like action like I did for the body. It's almost unbearably ticklish to have water start flowing from the head, and too many erogenous zones on the scalp are stimulated for a solo-shower.

The shampoo goes on first. For some unfathomable reason, I always get hungry when I shampoo. This is why they should not be using food smells in such products. What good can honeydew do for my hair, honestly. Next thing you know they'll be coming out with 'bacon-strip' conditioner and 'cheeseburger' night-cream. So anyways, I'd be grabbing and rubbing my head with my one free hand, while the other clutches the shower-head.

When I feel that I have sufficiently exterminated the evils lurking within my hair, I rinse it off and begin the delicate process of conditioning. I've been conditioned (pun!) to count to twenty when putting on conditioner, for reasons still unknown to me. To let it fully soften the hair? What's the use, I never can get the shampoo commercial effects anyways. Believe me, I've tried. The washing off of the conditioner is the glitch in this otherwise smooth ritual. I never know if the stuff is really gone, or if its just the now unnaturally smooth hair I'm feeling. It makes me uneasy to think about remnants of conditioner still clinging on surreptitiously.

Music, of course, is an integral part of any shower experience. Bathrooms are practically designed for mock concerts, with the superbly resonating acoustic effects and the makeshift microphone in the form of the shower-head. It is a habit of mine to take things to the extreme, as some who know me will testify. Others express slight irritation at an idea, I condemn the fool who inflicted that curse upon the human race. Others sing a line or two in the showers, I like to plan a whole concert set-list. It would be both irresponsible and morally corrupt of me if I were to trick my listeners and just do variations of the same songs. Nope, I have a better work ethic than that.

My favorite thing about showering is the nice smell on my skin afterward. I always leave the body foam part to the end, as I'm afraid the smell would be washed off by too much water. I try hard as possible to wash it with water as little as possible, and if I could just leave the foam on, I would. I reluctantly wash off the Cherry BodyShop shower lotion, and resign myself to the fate of the scent leaving me within two hours.

I step out of the shower a new person. I'm rejuvenated, glistening with water droplets, and most importantly, butt naked. If my neighbor from the other block chose that moment to look into my kitchen, she would be rewarded with a sight to behold. The new wine cooler is most magnificent. Hopefully she wouldn't notice the naked guy, because I doubt showers in prison provide Cherry shower lotion.