Products of a Jetlagged Mind

Here I am, still jet-lagged at 4am. What else is there to do at such an ungodly hour other than fall hopelessly in love with one's own photogenic face and photo-process it beyond recognition? Thus I present to you... my brand new album art! When I eventually get famous, I want people to remember me as the benevolent, multi-talented legend that creates his own album art rather than make some underling do it. 

 

Love Sobriety Act 2

Teddy
The problem with Devon is that he doesn’t think his situation is messed up. Everyone else sees it, but to him it’s ‘tragically beautiful’.

Dr Hartstein

Ah yes, the Relationship Addict. Everything is meaningful to him, everything has a deeper significance, every gesture a declaration of undying passion. These people don’t let go of a relationship for nuts, most of the time clinging on just so they can say that they do indeed have a relationship. “Look at me, I’m wanted.”


Teddy 

That’s exactly what he does!


Devon 

Excuse me?! Since when are dubiously certified ‘doctors’ and theatre geeks qualified to psychoanalyze people’s personal lives? And since we're already on the topic, I would like to point out that this is in fact my very first relationship, and I am most definitely not in 'desperately need' of one.


Janine 

You don’t have to be so defensive, Devon. “The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.”


Devon 

I’m not a damn alcoholic, though I won’t say no to a drink right now.


Janine 

Everyone’s ashamed to admit their problems. For myself, I was especially ashamed to say anything, given the slightly embarrassing turn my failed relationship took. But you know what, I told myself I made a mistake and here I am today, a completely different woman.


Amber 

(Rolls eyes) As opposed to an amateur pornographer.


Janine 

(Shrugs) I wanted to keep him interested.


Devon 

Jesus Christ, now we’re tying pornography to love.


Dr Hartstein

 Let Ms Janine tell the story, Devon. There’s probably something in there you can learn, and maybe you’d recognize your own lewdly self-destructive behaviour. Would save your friend Teddy here a whole lot of trouble if he doesn’t have to clean up the wreckage of yet another relationship just waiting to implode.


Devon

(To Teddy) Is that what you’ve been telling people; that you’re worried about me crying to you when it goes wrong? When have you ever seen me cry over a guy? When Charlotte died, yes I cried for the literate spiders of the world. When Lassie almost dies time and again, I cried for the courageous spirit of the canine species. When have I ever sobbed uncontrollably for a sentient creature? (Teddy looks away.)


Amber 

Are all gay people as gay as you are, or did you work to get this annoying?


Dr Hartstein 

Ms Janine, I’m sure Mr Devon here would love to hear your story.

Devon 

As surprised as I am to hear myself say this, but I really am dying to hear this one.


Janine 

(Takes a breath. Exhales.) Alright. I don’t relish reliving it, so be honoured that I’m once again plunging myself into those memories I swore I would keep suppressed.


Amber 

Oh cry me a fucking river and get on with it.


Janine

Well it started like this. He had previously learned that I didn’t know how to drive, so for our first date, he said he would teach me. It was kinda romantic, you know, him taking me to an empty abandoned lot and letting me drive illegally. Sure, it sounds like the set of a serial-killer movie, but I always say there’s a fine line between downright creepy and downright romantic. The fact that we were breaking the law right beside a church made it all the more thrilling. I loved how much he trusted me, someone who’s never sat in the driver’s seat until that day, to drive his beautiful white car round and round in circles. The fact that it was white made me really quite nervous.


Dr Hartstein

Understandable. I would be too, the redness of a by-passer’s blood would be so obvious on it if you hit someone.


Devon 

I think she was talking about scratches.


Dr Hartstein

(Pause) I don’t see how scratches is a bigger problem than blood.


Janine 

(Interrupting) My point was, I liked how much he trusted me. I guess my first warning sign was the packet of cigarettes I saw in the drink holder. In the past, I would never have dated a smoker. I think they taste acrid when you kiss them and they smell constantly of smoke and they’re not content to die alone through lung cancer and is trying to take us non-smokers with them through second-hand smoke. So I saw the pack of cigs but didn’t mention it till later on, I guess I was not really ready to accept that someone I’ve been having that much fun with was turning out to be a smoker. I was silent pretty much for the whole trip back to civilisation, all the while internally-debating if I was willing to put aside my rules this one time and just go for it. He would be worth it, I tell myself. All lies, of course, but things are only crystal clear in retrospect.


Devon 

I take back what I said about wanting to hear this if all you’re gonna talk about is his smoking.


Amber 

He’s right, can you just skip to the interesting part about your self-taken pornography already?


Janine

We’re getting to it. So that night I decided that just this time, I was going to forget all my stupid rules and self-imposed restrictions. What good are they if all they’re doing is keeping me from happiness?


Dr Hartstein

Yup this is a classic case of a love-influenced mentality, you begin hearing voices laced with demonic-intonations and slowly start believing them.


Janine

Oh they’re demonic alright. I’ve now come to learn that any decision made under the influence would come back to haunt you. His previously hidden psychosis began surfacing in disturbing ways. He would break 3 dates in a row, each time citing ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t do this now. My past is really fucked up (his words, pardon my language) and I’m so messed up now.” I’m like, ohhhkay a simple, ‘Hey I’m busy today’ would have sufficed.


Amber 

Or hey, today I’m banging some other chick.


Janine 

I prayed every day, I said, “Please God, Father in Heaven, I’m a good church goer and a caring daughter. I do some illegal driving now and then, but is that any reason to send a character from the Looney Tunes my way? I know you’re more benevolent than this, please show me he’s not a complete whack job.” The silly thing was, he was the one who had actively pursued me, so all this back and forth lunacy of wanting to, then not wanting to see me was very confusing.


A week later he broke up with me. I had asked him if I was someone to him, and he said, not in the same way that he’s someone to me.


Devon

So you’ve been dumped and now you think people need support groups for being scorned by guys. This is clearly a support group of men-bashers; none of you are what they really classify as a ‘love-addict’.


Janine 

No, that wasn’t the hard part. I had been broken up with before, that wasn’t anything new. The crazy part started after we had broken up. He insisted on remaining friends, though I was less open to that idea. I mean, why do I have to pretend to be okay with everything, with you dating someone else… when I don’t really want to be? We weren’t friends before, so whose benefit is it that I’m really pretending for?


Teddy 

It’s probably a way of making himself feel better.


Devon

Aren’t you the sensitive one today.


Janine

He wasn’t even a possessive boyfriend when we were together, that side of him only manifested after we’ve broken up. I would be hanging out with other male friends of mine, and for whatever reason, he would get really worked up about it. I don’t get what his problem was- he was the one who just wanted to be friends, he was the one who said I wasn’t anyone to him, so where’s he getting off being all possessive about things now? He heard somewhere that I was going to the clubs that night with my other male friends, and that really rubbed him the wrong way. I had eventually decided not to go, I’m also in Alcoholics Anonymous, I’m not ashamed to admit it, so I don’t think getting into that close proximity to martinis and rum was a great idea, especially after a break up. I couldn’t say the same for him, though. He had apparently gone out and gotten himself drunk, then began drunk texting me.


Devon 

Like what?


Janine

Really gross stuff, like how he finds his friend’s pussy tight and warm. Stuff that I had definitely not asked about, and have no intention of entertaining. I replied very curtly to tell him to stop drunk texting me and embarrassing himself. For whatever reason, his already sociopathic tendencies, coupled with a few drinks, bursts forth and reined a rampage of verbal abuse at me. Being a devout church goer and proud brownie scout girl, I absolutely refused to engage in this childish display of crudeness. I did not collect my ‘Friend of the Elderly’ badge by sprouting words like ‘shitmonger’ or ‘fuckweasel’ or ‘Son-of-a-raving-bitch-pussy-monster-cunt-slutface-FUCKTITTYFUCKBITCH!’


(Silence)


Amber 

I am in awe.


Janine

Oh stop looking at me like that, it was just an example of what I don’t say. Anyways, he goes on to say that it’s a pity how his phone still has dirty photos of me, the ones I had sent to him when I was still with him.


Teddy

It’s always the church-going-bible-thumpers you have to watch out for.

Janine 

I’m sure there isn’t anywhere in the Bible that bans the taking and distribution of suggestive photos with a webcam. In fact, I’m pretty sure the word ‘photo’ never appears in the Bible even once.


Amber

I don’t think ‘camwhoring slut’ appears either, but I’m pretty sure it’s at least implied.


Janine

Oh now you’re all high and mighty, Miss Fellatio Universe 2009?


Amber

Look how quickly the church-bitch transforms, it’s fucking incredible.


Dr Hartstein

(Above the noise) Let us remind ourselves that derogative terms do not help us grow and overcome our problems!


Devon

I don’t like where this is going, but I gotta ask. Why did he bring the photos up?


Janine 

He was threatening to post them online. Keep in mind that he was the one who started everything, who gotten jealous over a situation where he has absolutely no right to be, and then betrayed my trust by threatening to post my most intimate photos on the internet.


Amber

If a guy did that to me I would literally tear his goddamned balls out and stain my bare hands with that bastard’s blood.


Devon 

Well, did he do it?


Janine 

Oh you can bet on Moses’ great waving arms he did.


Devon 

I’m not sure I get that analogy.


Janine

You know, Moses has a great arm. He waves it and the oceans part. The point is, he really did post it on Facebook, and had the audacity to tag me. Thank the heavens it wasn’t one where my face was shown, but still! It literally knocked the breath out of me as I scrambled to block and report that photo to the relevant authorities. Facebook should really have a huge red panic button for situations like this. ‘Please state the nature of your complaint’. My BARE NAKED BUTTOCKS are on Facebook, is that enough of a reason to complain? Mark Zuckerberg has clearly never faced this problem before. Then again, if I had Zuckerberg’s butt, neither would I.


Devon 

Fair point. What eventually happened to the photos?


Janine

There was just the one, and of course I untagged it within seconds, so none of my friends saw it. I assume it was on his own wall for a longer period of time. He eventually removed it when he was finally sober in the morning, and tried apologizing for it. Of course, both he and I know that we can never have any sort of relationship ever again after what had happened, be it friendship or otherwise. I threatened to obtain a restraining order against him if I ever had the displeasure of seeing him again, and since then he hasn’t contacted me.


Dr Hartstein

(Wiping a tear) Such a courageous story from a feisty survivor of love. You see what happens when you let love tell you what to do, Devon? When you decide that you can forget the very reasons you had rules and restrictions for dating in the first place? You wind up with your big fat bottom all over Facebook. No offence to your buttocks, darhlin, I’m sure it’s reasonably toned and any touch of flabbiness would only add to the perk factor.

Devon

But there’s something I don’t get. A ‘survivor’, like the good doctor here describes, doesn’t seem like the type that would declare love the enemy and swear it off all together.


Janine

(Smiles) Oh no, darhling. I’m not here for me.


Devon 

What do you mean?


Janine

I’m here to explore why love has made him do the things he did, honey. It’s his destructive tendencies that are hurting the people around him, not mine. The only thing I’m guilty of is making people love me too much.
(sighs) I’m sure I’m the only one in therapy for being too beautiful.

Lost Luggage, Lost Love

I stare at the luggage carosel, willing with all the make-believe powers of Jean Grey I wish I had, willing it to start turning again. Go on, I whisper to it with my completely real telepathic abilities, hoping to seduce the slabs of rubber into movement. Go on and make that whirring, whining noise, and start turning again. You have to. Because my bag is NOT FUCKING HERE!

"All luggage from Flight UA8650 has now arrived. " That fucking lying voice in the sky. "Passengers whose bags did not come through the carosel, please submit a baggage claim at the Baggage Claim Office. Thank you."

I put myself together and calmly walk over to the door with the big blue sign that says Baggage Claim. I act as if this happens all the time and that I'm not insanely worried about having to spend the rest of the week naked because all my clothes went missing. The slight tremble in my voice as I submit my claim betrays my portrayed serenity.

"You motherfuckers locate my damn suitcase or prepare to have your bitchcunt lardass sodomized ten ways till Sunday."

I'm such a people person.

After promising to deliver my suitcase to my new apartment, in the event that it arrives tonight, I pull out my cellphone to make a call, but instead of the usual AT&T logo at the top, I see 'SIM not provisioned'. I believe that is what the people in the telecommunications field say in lieu of 'fuck you lol.' As it turns out, my bank hasn't been transferring money to pay off my cellphone bills for the past two months when I'm not in Madison, which led to AT&T cancelling my service. And the reason for my bank not transferring money is not completely clear to me. Sure, there's the tiny matter of my bank account not having any money, but apart from that it's completely flabbergasting to me.

So I make my way to the AT&T store, located shitmiles away from downtown, only to discover that I'm still unable to use my cards to pay that bill. My dad's transferred a sum of money to me, but it's stuck in my Savings account and not accessible to me. I decide to go to my bank first to have my Checkings account reopened, only to discover that they close at 1pm on Saturdays and slack off on Sundays. Is that what they teach them at Banking School, to let your customers down like that? Fine then, I'll settle it on Monday. Except I'm left with something like twenty dollars in cash, no way to withdraw any more, no way to tell any friends about it, and essentially standing in my last change of clothes.

I'm a strong person, I'd like to believe. Go on and take my clothes, my clean underwear, my money, my phone, take it all. I can live without all that frivolous nonsense. But an unforseen side effect to having my luggage delayed was that my Macbook charger was delayed with it. I squeeze the last 10 minutes of the available battery in a mad attempt to accomplish as much online as I can, and when my screen finally blacked out, I sat before my computer in a foggy daze. I am unable to comprehend this. I nudge it like Simba prodding Mufasa, willing it to come back to me.

I sit alone in the darkness of my new apartment, the evidence of moving-in cluttered around me like abandoned soldiers waiting to die on a battlefield. I wade around the myraid of cardboard boxes, refusing to acknowledge the irony of how I'm surrounded by the warmest winter coats money can buy, yet without the simplest of briefs I am unable to function.

I finally see the message I have been waiting for at 3am. The decision I asked for. Sleep was still deprived to me due to jet lag, and with bated breath and bloodshot eyes I read the few lines that finally did me in. After everything, I'm back to being single. The sense of relief I expected from no longer having to worry about whether or not this could survive did not come to me. Although I understood it, I still cried  harder than I ever had in my adult life. I cried for the memories, the disappointment, the lost possibilities, the fear, for everything that's gone wrong since my return. The deepest pain comes from knowing that I'm still loved, from knowing that I could have had it all if only the circumstances were different.

I love you, so goodbye.

Love Sobriety Act 1

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Introlude

I remember that night well. 

We were sitting there on my bed, not doing anything dirty or anything like that, that part came later, but we were just talking. You had so much to say, so much you wanted to express, and I was content just lazing by you and listening to your voice. You were surprised that I got all your references; I was delighted that you was using those references. Movie quotes, lyrical analogies, stand-up material, the kind of references only someone who spent a lifetime watching, listening and enjoying the same… you know.. stuff… would understand. It’s like how it’s much easier talking to an old friend than a new one, because I don’t have to explain any of the back-story. One ‘look’, one ‘gesture’, both of us would instantly ‘get it’. It’s exactly like that with you. You have this way of telling a really detailed story as a way of getting to an obscure point, which may or may not be relevant to the story at all, but the engrossed manner in which you describe it just grabs and captivates me. 

There you were, sitting at the edge of my bed as if afraid to come closer. This adorable yet threateningly beautiful creature, here on my bed, and for the first time in a long time, I was unsure of myself. I felt like a crippled predator, so consumed by my hunger, yet unable to make a move. I take in the way you shut your eyes when you laugh, the way you smile with the right corner of your mouth, the way your brown eyes glint, both warm and dangerous.

I knew I had to taste your lips the moment you walked through my door. It was probably a good hour or two before you finally did something about it, though. We were discussing our favorite Adele songs, best way to arrange glow-in-the-dark stars, Kathy Griffin’s Gwyneth impersonation, whatever it was. You said, ‘I’m just going to do this now, because I don’t know how else to do it, and I’m afraid I’ll miss my chance.’

So then you moved closer, leaned in with your eyes closed, and in my head I’m going ‘God-fucking-damn, about time’ and my heart was going ‘God-fucking-damn you're coming closer’ and my nose was going ‘God-fucking-damn you smell so good’ and my lips were going ‘Never let go.’
 

I was hooked from that moment. We must have made out for no less than five hours before we finally fell asleep at four in the morning, lips sore as hell. I was deliriously contented, yet a seed of unease gnawed at my insides. You said that you don’t want this to end tonight, and I voiced similar sentiments. I could sense it moving dangerously close to something like the beginning of a relationship, yet we both know that I only have two months here. We came to an agreement that neither of us would hold back, and allow ourselves to be swept away by whatever witchery it is that sweeps people away when they’re in relationships.

I fell much harder for you than I initially thought I could. Two months, in and out, metaphorically, though sometimes literally. I can handle this for sure. But each time I meet you I feel like I’ve known you forever, and I just wonder how I could ever get used to not having you in my life anymore. Two months is an achievement for me, I’ve never had someone stay with me for more than two weeks, neither have I liked anyone for such an extended period of time. I’m sometimes gripped by the fear that lightning isn’t going to strike twice, that I’m being forced to prematurely cash in my one lucky ticket at the most inconvenient juncture in my life.

Three nights later you said you loved me. I asked you repeatedly if you really meant it, and when I was convinced, I uttered those words back to you. The first time I ever said it to anyone. That night we did it to Carla Bruni’s album, Comme si de rien n'était. In English it means ‘As If Nothing Had Happened’, which I thought was appropriately ironic. You had sealed yourself in my history, and there was nothing anyone can do now to rewrite that. There was no better way I could have done it the first time; it was as if I had planned the whole pornographic extravaganza.

That was the night I fell in love.

The Secret Is Revealed Upon Death

Control it. Keep your cool. Breathe. Suppress. Wipe that tear away, you weakling. You disgust me. 

A mantra I wish I didn't have to repeat. A heaviness I wish I didn't have to carry. 

It hits me the hardest in that semi-conscious zone between sleep and wakefulness. It grabs me at my mind's most vulnerable; before it completely leaves the comforting caress of my self-deceptive dreams, and before it fully arrives at the 'clear-headed region' of rational thought. As I lie in the hazy dimness of twilight, I'm gripped by the panic of the inevitable. I shiver at the thought of waking up one morning entirely alone. I stare at the spent, dark blurs of the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, the very ones we used to gaze at on the first day we met. 

I walk alone in the dead of the night, walked by your building. Unknowingly, I turn my head and looked at your window. Were you asleep? Were you awake as I am, troubled as I am, grief-stricken as I am? I feel it bubbling beneath the surface, sobs strangled as I force it down. I feel the agony of having you so close, yet seemingly miles away. My feet do not slow down as I continue my listless meander. I know that if I stopped now, my feet would never have the energy to go on. My arms are crossed, as if bracing myself from a chill, but the only chill I feel comes from a place too deep to hide from.

The secret is revealed upon death. 

The thirteenth card in the tarot, Death, suggests that with every ending comes new beginnings, with every death comes birth, with every finality comes ignition. The afterlife presents itself only to those who have faced it, and until then, all we can do is speculate. Two months used to sound like such a long time, and now the end is within days away. Two days. The mere thought of being alone in my empty Madison apartment is enough to paralyze me. Death reveals the answers, they tell me. I seriously doubt it, but would actually seeing the other side be better than waiting around to find out?

A part of me will die, yes. 

But I won't stay down.

The High of Abandonment

You were the suave, experienced one, I was the virginal, wide-eyed student. I guess that chasm of separation between the similarities of our histories had its appeal to both of us. You were the one who had seen it all, the one to impress and live up to, I was the untainted pup willing to be corrupted in the worst possible ways. We grew close despite our significant difference in biological ages, instead finding numerous parallels and intersections in our otherwise distant paths. It's like finding out someone has been functioning in your role in a completely different environment.

Intellectually, of course I knew you have had an illustrious past. Someone that devilishly attractive does not stay unnoticed for three decades. But on a more basely level, on a primal degree, everything about your past gives me an uncontrollable lurch in the pit of my stomach. Picturing one's lover's exes was not one of those places where an over-active imagination was appreciated. You tried bringing it up once and again, and each time I shut it out, in steadfast denial that I was your only truth. Perhaps it was the surfacing of everything I thought I should have felt by now, but was unable to, due to horrific past experiences. Perhaps it wouldn't have been that bad if my consuming possessiveness had been spread out over, say, five failed relationships. But this was the only love I had ever known, and like hell was I going to share. I wanted to possess your present, your future, even your past.

You don't want to give up your personal life this time, you say. You've been hurt in the past, throwing away your responsibilities for the sake of enjoying one more minute, one more night, with a boyfriend who was scheduled to depart for good. Much like my situation. This time, you say, you wont let yourself forget who you are for the sake of spending more time with me. Your friends are still going to be your friends, your job is going to be your job, your duties are still going to be waiting for you when this reaches its steady conclusion. My leaving isn't going to change anything, on a surface level, at least. You're going to look back and know that you managed to keep a semblance of your real life going. I'm going to look back and know that you wouldn't do for me what you would have done for a previous relationship. A completely unfair sentiment, but whatever it is, I don't want to leave with the impression I was somehow not important enough for that level of sacrifice. Perhaps it's because I haven't been through what you have, or I'm just a person who's willing to neglect his responsibilities for love, but I know that had the roles been reversed, I would have more than gladly done it.

Maybe I'm not living up to your ideal image of what a lover should be. Someone self-sufficient enough to survive when you're not around, someone independently able to avoid functioning like a semi-awake robot when you're away. But that's not who I am. I have to be so guarded, so strong, so independent in my everyday life that I just want to be able to be weak with the one person I love. I don't want to carry on putting up strong front with you. I don't want to give you the same 'I'm fine' line I throw to everyone else. I don't want to function with you the way I'm forced to by my usually isolated environment. You have really utilitarian and Spartan views towards relationships, I said. Everything's based on an ideal image of how an efficient and self-sufficient machine should run, as if we're discussing battery performance and not intangible emotions.

I want to fall without a harness, to fall deeply, completely, without hesitation, without a care for what might or might not hurt me. There is no might about it, I will get deeply hurt. But I won't remember holding back and I won't remember placing you anywhere other than my top priority. Like a wound from a hang-gliding or dirt-biking accident; when the scar heals, your most vivid memory would be a flash of that indescribable high of complete abandonment.

Because

So unexpectedly , you appear before me

I find in your embrace the home that I seek

So much I need to say, but words can't find a way

If only you could read my mind today

Because I have

An ineptitude to disregard the past

Because I have

A need for my first to also be my last

Because I have

A fixation on our nonexistent tomorrow

Because I have

No desire to associate us with sorrow

It's such a cruel joke the gods are playing on me

Granting me a love that I know can't be

Aware of all we have, loving on borrowed time

Giving up my all, but soon you won't be mine

Because you have

A crooked smile that scorches my soul

Because you have

A kiss that annihilates my self control

Because you have

The courage to reach for my hand first

Because you have

The willingness not to hide while at your worst

I willingly submit to the pain it would bring

As long as you're with me it's like I'm born with wings

I'll take what time we have, make every second last

Can I stop the Earth from spinning this fast

Because we have

The kind of affinity playwrights dream about

Because we have

The best of luck to have connected and gone out

Because we have

Sex and conversation as equally intense

Because we have

The worst of luck to lose to untimely circumstance

A blessing in disguise or a thorn in my side

Addicted to you now so I won't decide

You love me fearlessly, it shakes me to my soul

Can I be that brave when it's time to go

Because I'm crazy

For my overactive imagination poisons me

Because I'm crazy

For giving up my first genuine taste of ‘we’

Because I'm crazy

For 'moving on' is a concept I cannot allow

Because I'm crazy

For you, for us, forlorn, for now

Relationship Spread - Where Do We Go From Here

1. Where we are now - Nine of Swords

- Over-burdened by thoughts

- Feeling you have done something wrong

- Wishing 'if-only'

- Regretting the past

- Sleepless nights

- Obsessive sorrow

- Feeling vulnerable

Nines are about action. If you are in a difficult relationship, this card indicates you are finding it difficult to explain your true intentions or feelings because you are so wrapped up in your own problems. It can also suggest that you feel ashamed of your feelings or your behavior towards someone.

2. What is causing us a problem - Four of Wands

- Over-doing the merry-making at expense of something more important

- Denying the serious aspects of life for all the more laid-back possibilities

- Fear of moving on, making changes or looking at the truth of who you really are

- Compensation through sheer self-congratulation and non-stop socializing

The Four of Wands also indicates that you can now free yourself from any circumstances that don't suit you. Whether it is a relationship, job, self-doubt or fear, you can break free and open yourself to new possibilities or cut loose from self-imposed bonds. It is time to move into the next phase of personal growth and leave the past behind.

3. What we have forgotten to respect - Two of Wands

- Embracing new ideas

- Being inventive and different

However invigorated or empowered you feel right now, don't let that sense of omnipotence blind you to your true needs and intentions. The Two of Wands can also indicate that someone else is trying to exert power over you if you choose this card in a relationship spread. 

4. What we need to express - Three of Wands

- Seeking new adventure

- Knowing what is going to happen next

- Starting on a new journey

You are too obsessed with what will happen next to see the truth of where you are now. The Three of Wands indicates that it is time to explore future possibilities with foresight and a sense of adventure. You must be prepared to pay the price for your quest by anticipating the obstacles on the way. You are asked to move courageously onwards but with foresight as your greatest gift right now.

5. Our options - Two of Swords

- Blind to the truth

- Denying your feelings

- Defensive attitude

- Ignoring the ruth

- Blocking out others

- Putting up barriers

- Being unwilling to make a choice

The Two of Swords suggests you are cut off not only from yourself, but from someone else. You are avoiding your feelings and won't accept the truth about a situation. And what you need to learn right now is to open up, drop the guard, let down the drawbridge and not fear the truth.

6. Where we will go from here - Seven of Cups

- An array of options open to you

- Illusions and fantasies are preventing you from moving on 

It will soon be time to face those options, make your choice and commit yourself to those plans, rather than avoiding the challenge. In a relationship issue, take care that you do not over-estimate what someone else has to offer you. You might be overwhelmed by thoughts and choices, and not know where to turn. You might be literally fantasizing about your abilities or have grand illusions about love. 

Create Talents - An Exposé

Some songs are made just for strutting. You know, the type of song with the right beat and the right sass, that just brings out the fearless runway model in you. A particularly good one is Britney's 'I've Just Begun Having My Fun', prominently featured in the film 'Bridesmaids'. So there I was, strutting out of the Boonlay MRT station and feeling like the world was my runway and all the passers-by were gawking photographers, when a diminutive little woman runs up to me and repeatedly taps my arm. 

"Excuse me! Hey, excuse me! Are you local?" She peers up at me. I must look like a specimen of beauty from another planet to her, this 5ft tall lady. "We are a modelling agency and we would like to invite you to an interview, would you be interested?" 

Why, 'The Secret' really isn't a crock-of-bull after all. Picture delicious thoughts and they all mysteriously materialize. I drift away amidst my thoughts. It must be my statuesque stance and confident stride that they're interested in. Or or or! My angular features and strikingly gorgeous eyes that betray a deep, mysterious vulnerability. The scout's voice pulls me back to the present by pressing me for my number. I give it to her, knowing that the 'interview' would make a hilarious blog post. I'm not doing it out of vanity, silly. It's for the world of journalism. 

Now I'm sure there are many out there who have been hunted down by the hard working individuals of Create Talents. Many are thrilled to their very cores at this invitation, believing it to be a validation of their appearances. A significant number are suspicious at their intentions, and rightfully so. There are a great cohort of unscrupulous, black hearted men and women who would stop at nothing to prey on the hopes and dreams (however far-fetched and foolish) of the young and the deluded. 

I believe that the universe has chosen to to bring forth this message to you: Create Talents is not a scam. Depending on what your definition of a scam is. For freelance work, you have to fork up a few hundred dollars for a portfolio, where the company then shows to prospective clients. If you decide to sign a contract with a client, they would be the ones that pay for your portfolio. Of course, with a contract comes zero options with choosing jobs, so your body is basically theirs for the duration of the contract. Most opt for the freelance option, and end up rejecting jobs where they don't feel confident or comfortable enough doing, and hence they never manage to recoup the losses of the portfolio investment. That's basically the low-down of their organization.

Legitimately, they're an actual modelling managing company. Their office is located at Dhoby Exchange, and I walked in there actually pretty fucking nervous. My natural inborn insecurities all surfaced at the very moment when I walked in their door, feeling as if every inch of my body, from my hastily assembled hairstyle down to my plain leather shoes, were scrutinized to an inch of its life. What am I doing in a place like this, I think to myself. Two beautiful blonde Caucasian girls were on the couch next to me. They must be actual models! They must think I have some balls showing up looking like this! I'm out of my fucking mind, no blog entry is worth this kind of psychological torture!

A woman greets me, shakes my hand, and takes me to a back-room. To me, this is where the legitimacy of their business is made or broken. If I get clobbered by a man behind the door, and then proceeded to get brutally raped and murdered, though not necessarily in that order, I would probably consider this a shady business. I hold my breath and walk through the door, and to my utter horror, the walls were all covered in photographs of past victims. This must be where the brutality happens! They're gonna take a snapshot of me screaming and have their way with me! I was high with adrenaline and preparing to knock the woman out with a one-two jab when I realize that she's patiently gesturing me to a chair, and that all the photos are photos of their models. It does make some sense, a modelling agency having photos of their own models. Fine. But I'm still suspicious. 

I really wanted to hate the lady, I truly did. I was ready to paint her as a heartless vampire, willing to suck the soul out of anybody who looks dumb enough to be swindled. I quickly inform her that as a unpaid employee of a law firm, I am fully equipped to rip apart any contract she might be hiding in those thick, suspicious looking files of hers. "I'm familiar with my constitutional rights and I'm not afraid to use them!" I hope she doesn't know I'm talking about the US constitution. She is, however, a decidedly pleasant woman. When I informed her that I would not be able to commit to anything, and that I would only be in Singapore for school holidays, plus I have no plans to return permanently in the future, she was the one who told me that there's really no point for me to get a portfolio with them. I expected them to be pushy about it, and had actually prepared my rebuttal like a good law-intern, but my opportunity to use it never came. Instead, we chatted for an hour about procedural law, for her friend's son is currently having trouble with the law. 

She also confided in me about the various loser-kids who come for interviews. You know, the type with no capability to make their own decisions and require the assistance of their entire families to say 'I can think of a million things I'd rather do with five hundred dollars', or 'yes please continue deluding me with dreams of supermodel-dom'. Do people like that really expect to accomplish anything in the world of fashion? Has Tyra and 319 cycles of America's Next Top Model taught them nothing? Amateurs. 

The interviewer lady very courteously thanks me for my time, and I thank her for a delightful chat. Inside, I'm glad that things didn't have to get ugly, the way I expected it to. I guess it's very easy to villianize these people, calling them crooks and highway-robbers. The truth is, they have a commitment to their models, and they have a legitimate business to run. Don't expect to be treated like Heidi Fucking Klum because you're not, and don't expect modelling jobs to just fall in your lap without any effort on your part. Don't feel like you're entitled to anything, just because you were one among hundreds that they deemed 'decent' enough to approach. If one puts in his time, with a little luck, there's no reason why you can't add 'model' to your resume.

Legally Bottle Blond

Interning at a law firm definitely has its perks. For instance, you get to go to work dressed all decent and proper, striding towards the central business districts of Singapore as if you're one of the real professionals. You toss your hair, toss a condescending non-smile to all those you deem too lowly to deserve a true professional's attention, toss the super-exclusive electronic key-card at the gate to board the elevators.. There's a lot of tossing involved in this job. Not too much difference from professional wankers. I walk among the rich and powerful and I work among the devious and morally-corrupt, and all this magic happens right in the UOB Building. I feel as if I'm being rocketed right to the top of the world as the elevators propel me onto unimaginable heights. 

All figuratively speaking, of course. I work on the 24th floor so it's pretty imaginable. I spend my days researching Acts and law-y definitions, and draft a letter or two once in a while. Pretty tedious work, but it gives me the opportunity to come into contact with hands-on legal work. Ironically, I'm not even sure if I'm legally allowed to work there, given my foreigner-without-a-work-pass status. There was a space for one's work-permit number to be filled in on the application form, but I just defiantly crossed it out and refused to acknowledge its existence. They must have turned a blind eye because they didn't want to let such an adorable, handsome, sexy guy like me (note the complete lack of sarcasm in my tone) get sent away cause of a little thing like legality. Besides, which law firm has ever let law get in its way. 

In my very own Ally McBeal moment, I went down to the Singapore High Court for the very first time in my life. First time I've been to any court, actually. This is one of those moments and places where I'm so glad I walked in on my own, for the other alternative would be to get arrested and dragged here by pesky police officers, even though I know I look positively fetching in a pair of handcuffs. Perhaps I've been too misguided or deluded by legal dramas, but the entire structure of the High Court was a huge surprise to me. For some reason I was expecting a lot of old mahogany, wooden posts, a lone marble statue with some inscription about the upholding of justice. You know, the typical imposing, awe-inspiring architecture that just makes convicts throw themselves onto their knees and beg for mercy. 

In actuality, the High Court was a behemoth of steel and glass, coolly efficient and sterile, just like how you'd expect a modern Singaporean design to be. A huge expanse of space, countless motion-detecting escalators arranged in neat parallel rows, glass, glass everywhere. A lawyer-mentor from the firm showed me around the building, explaining that both the Supreme Court and High Court are housed in this building. The Supreme Court tries appeal cases, and passes judgements on whether a trial's procedures were upheld correctly and justly, while a High Court actually tries cases.

"There's a trial going on here," rasps my lawyer-mentor. "We can go in and take a look. Make sure your phone is switched off, and bow down when you enter."

When he says bow down, I was picturing him maintaining a 90-degree bend all the way to his seat. I was fully prepared to do that, except what he meant was bow down once to the judge, and then straighten up and walk to your seat like you're afraid to even fart. Sure, I can do that too. Enter. Bow. Look at the faces of everyone who just turned to look at you. Act like you're supposed to be there. Clench asshole tightly. Walk to bench. Sit. Relax asshole. There, we made it. 

The defendant is a young Chinese male, of perhaps twenty-five. In my stiff fear of the judge's power to throw me into jail for contempt, I make slow, deliberate movements. Don't give the guards any reason to suspect that you're attempting anything funny. I take in my surroundings and once again notice how much glass there is around me, realizing that it's probably bullet-proof to protect the honorable judge from any assassination attempts by the dangerous, scary public. It's not enough that we have to go through airport-level security when you enter the building, nooo the judge must be assassination-proof at all times.

Through the prosecutor's questioning, I pieced together the facts of the case. Mr Phua, the defendant, was arrested at the Singapore border, after arriving from JB. He was found with over 1000g of heroin and a box of sleeping pills. He claims that he was merely helping his friend, Ada, transport a box of sleeping pills into Singapore, and did not know that the other boxes contained heroin. I was taking it all in, the tv-caliber of the case, the high of being present at my first trial, that I never even realized how serious it was until my lawyer-mentor whispered to me that the penalty for drug-trafficking was death by hanging. 

I reeled for a moment. This young man, sitting not five meters away from me, had a defense as flimsy as an anorexic woman in a hurricane. The burden of proving 'ignorance of fact' was on the defendant's shoulders. In layman's words, the guy's screwed. And by screwed I mean dead. 

It hit me so hard, how terrible and dark this all was. I was in the presence of someone about to be executed. Could I really go into criminal law, and stomach this? As a prosecutor I'd be fighting to have them killed, as a defense attorney my failure would lead to my clients being killed. I had always been an advocate of capitol punishment, for there are those sicko-rapist-murderers who deserve nothing less than death, but can I really accept the execution of the perpetrator of a victimless crime? Drugs, like prostitution, only comes into contact with you when you want it to. To me, executing someone for the possible future effects of his cargo is like arresting someone for throwing out a banana peel. You know what you're doing is wrong, and someone could slip, hit his head and die, but you're not really a murderer, are you?

I walked out of High Court a little shaken and a little concerned. I'm forced to reevaluated all my motivations towards studying law. What am I really doing this for? Because if it's just for the money, I could never be able live with myself for fighting and winning a war with rules I can't stand behind.

Old Ladies Who Voyeur

An unfortunate side effect to growing old, apart from losing skin-elasticity in important areas such as one’s butt, balls and breasts (though rarely all three on the same person), is the loss of sanity for some individuals. It is truly saddening, but also sadistically entertaining, to watch once sweet old ladies transform into fearsome caricatures with unbecoming personalities not unlike the Crow, from the movie 'The Crow'.

The luckier ones merely start losing their memories, and are saved from the dreary reality of their depressing, lonely lives. Each day is like a fresh adventure for these guys. “Wow, this place is such a dump! I must have landed in some alternate reality from a possessed Ouija board or something, and must now embark on a quest to find my way back to my Beverly Hills mansion and loving family! Who most definitely did not abandon me here!”They spend the day exploring this fascinating shack, telling themselves how lucky it is that this is only a weird parallel universe and how they would die before they willingly live here. Following morning, repeat.

There are also less fortunate ones, like my neighbour, who have completely and utterly embraced the methods and ways of a paranoid schizophrenic. This weak minded old hussy has allowed herself to listen to the voices in her head, the voices that tells her how horrifically vicious I am, and how much I enjoy mutilating her plants. Because of course there is nothing I love more than to take a lighter to her leafy shoots and lovingly singe the essence out of those eyesores. Those very voices whisper to her “Your own negligence and failure to water your own plants can’t be the reason why they’re all dying! Plants don’t need water to survive, they need constant obsessive, paranoid thoughts sent from their caring owner, and you’re nothing if not full of suspicion. Flowers thrive on that, babydoll. You sweet, beautiful, wrinkled little cute thing, you.”

Now that she’s cleared herself of all wrongdoing, the next logical step is to blame me, naturally. Cause if I don’t look like the type that goes around killing old ladies’ plants, then I don’t know what the hell I look like. After years of accusations, Crazy Plant Lady has finally decided to up the stakes, and invested in two surveillance cameras at her front door. You heard me right. Crazy Plant Lady’s not fucking around with her shrubbery. She will fucking survey the shit outta you as you mess around with her half-dead parsley, and finger herself as she watches you do it or something. Oh don’t act disgusted, there’s got to be a voyeurism angle to the whole surveillance camera business, you and I both know that. One of her camera is pointed at her abused and thirsty twig, and the other at her front door. Because of course you would break into her house and gloat after destroying her plants, wouldn’t you? Kill her poor plant and leave its remains scattered on her bed, that’ll show her who’s the crazy one.

One thing the sweet old dear particularly enjoyed doing was to wait for us to leave the house, then ambush us with her barrage of Buddhist chanting as we pass her door. I believe she has fashioned herself the heroine of a demon-centred film, and is trying to exorcise the evil out of my family. It doesn’t help that my father has the worst patience ever when someone tries to exorcise him, the guy just can’t handle it. So in perhaps the most misguided attempt to convince her of how free of demons he is, he screams at her for being such a self-righteous holy bitch and slams the front gate five times, emphasizing each slam with a new derogative slur. I guess we really can't blame her for likening us to the more Satanic version of the Addams family.

Perhaps that was exactly what she was looking for. For a record breaking 3 months, Crazy Plant Lady was the nicest, most pleasant old darling you’ve ever met. Some people are just sick like that.

Now excuse me while I sharpen the scissors. My neighbour got new bougainvilleas.  

Why I'm Going To Hell

I hate people who go about their lives expecting everyone else to cater to their unreasonable, divaistic needs. I hate people who are infuriatingly picky over what they eat, and rush to the toilet to puke it all out the minute they swallow it. I hate people who wear frumpy clothes. And most of all, I hate people who have demons growing in them. Just when you thought no one could possibly embody all those hateful traits, the Pregnant Lady rises up to the challenge and fearlessly leads the coalition of all that is hateful.

Just the other day, I was contentedly snuggled in what I consider the holy grail of all MRT seats. It was a slight inconvenience that they labelled all the corner seats as ‘Reserved Seating’ for people with special needs, as if the elderly, disabled and pregnant called ahead to make reservations for their sick, frail asses. You see, the inconvenience wasn’t that I had to give up my seats, it was that I now have to look at these depressing people as they crowd around my seat. As a matter of principle, I never allow myself to believe the gross bigoted lies that the government tries to spread. They try to tell us how the old, crippled and bloated members of our society are inherently weaker and how they need our pity and sympathy, but ‘NO’, I say. These fat, wrinkled, scrotum-resembling creatures are strong and necessary members of our community, and they will damn well stand on the subway if they so choose to. Are we not belittling their courage by humiliating them with offers of seats and attention? And if they should so desire to graciously accept our seats, well then tough luck cause you’re gonna have to pry my cold dead body off this seat before I offer it up.

So there I was, comfortably enjoying my corner when one of those Entitled Pregnant Bitches comes and stands before me. I stare at her belly, telepathically willing the demon within to stop hiding in there like a pussy and come take the seat himself if he wants it so much. I look up at EPB and gives her a mysterious half-smile, and the poor dear must have thought that I was going to rise now, like a gentleman, and chivalrously let her sit down. Ha! I roll my eyes and went to ‘sleep’, daydreaming about what I’ll say to Satan when I finally meet him in Hell.

I feel people come in at the next stop, and my spider-senses tell me that EPB has been shuffled off to the side by the crowd of commuters. Feeling safe enough to abandon my ‘Oh deary me, were you pregnant? I was just asleep and not really a huge asshole even though I really am fantasizing about punching your baby in the neck” fake-out. I take a peek, and who do I see but an even huger Super Pregnant Bitch cornering me. You know the signs – her hand is on the rail, belly thrust in your face, hand continuously rubbing her tummy as if enticing me to headbutt her right there and then.  “Is it my fucking baby?” I wanted to yell at her. “Did I put a hand-mixer in your hair and force you to have sex, lest I turn it on and twirl your hair and rip it right out of your skull sadistically?” I just don’t get these SPBs and EPBs. They’re the only people in the world who can turn their own horny inhibitions into a ticket for getting everything easy. You lose control of your sexual urges for one night and the world pays for it for nine months.  Just rub that belly like a magic lamp and it all falls into place, doesn’t it?

The only thing MRT’s ‘Reserved Seating’ does is that it gives 90% of the other passengers a reason not to give up their seats. Sure, I was selfishly hogging that corner seat, but there are able-bodied men and women all around us, each self-righteously believing that under whatever circumstances, only the corner seats can be offered up. Their own ‘Common’ seats are safe from the pregnant vultures, and they can very well enjoy their guilt-less trips, condemning the blondie asshole who refuses to give up his Priority Seat.

“I would have totally given up that seat if I was sitting there”, you tell yourself. “It’s a pity I’m here in this lowly common seat and offering up this seat would be akin to offering up my soul, why would I ever do that?”