Paper Stars

The jar of stars sat on my bookshelf. There were thirty-seven of them left. I pick one up - it was blue and shiny, with imprints of Piglet on it. I unravel the star into its original long strip of gloss on one side and white on the other. Convenient for leaving messages.

"The way you close your eyes when you smell coffee in the morning," the star said.

A year ago you presented me with a jar of paper stars. Green and yellow, blue and pink, sparkly and cheerful and gaudy and bright. Your eyes held a mischievous glow, the same look preschoolers possess when they've done something they're proud of and couldn't wait to share. 

Three hundred and sixty-five stars, you proclaimed in that soft spoken manner of yours. You'd always look bashful, even at moments like these. As if you expected me to mock your efforts, that I'd laugh at you for trying. Still with your eyes slightly avoiding mine, like you were almost going to take the gift back and go "forget it, it's a dumb idea", you explained that I was supposed to unravel one star per day, every day until my next birthday. Three hundred and sixty-five things you loved about me were written on the back of the stars, to last me for an entire year. 

"You managed to think of three hundred?" My hands trembled slightly as I fished one out of the jar. 

A lump formed in the back of my throat as I unrolled the paper star. "I love the transfixed manner you listen to Michele McLaughlin," you wrote.

My fingers were already reaching for the next star when you caught my hand, literally in the cookie jar, and sternly (as sternly as you could get) made me promise I would only open them one at a time. On days when I was feeling especially down, however, you said that I was allowed to open one more - but just one! - as a pick-me-up.

I opened twenty-seven the day you left.

I originally intended to open them all up and mirthfully scorn all these lies that the stars have become. But then I realized I needed them. Because I realized that everything you've written down in those stars were pieces of me, pieces that you didn't and couldn't take with you when you left. The things that made me - me - were there before you and will be here after. 

In the midst of the wreckage and strips of unraveled paper stars around me, I came to this realization. I gathered up all the unopened stars and put them back in the jar. I intended to still open one a day as a reminder it now serves that who I am is inconsequential of who I am with. 

The coffee does smell delicious this morning.  

Sidewalk

I see them huddled by the sidewalk. Her hand was in his, and she was smiling - smiling so brightly. I walked by in a hurry, hurrying to get out of the cold. Homeless teens with nowhere to go, nowhere they needed to be. I rushed on in my expensive jacket and expensive boots, leaving them behind. And still they smiled while I scowled.

Grandfather

The sad invariability of life and the whole concept of the last-minute-epiphany is that we only rush to cherish that which is under immediate threat. The crushing news of my grandfather's possible lung cancer hit like a locomotive. After complaining of pain in his chest, he was brought to the hospital for a checkup, where the doctor assessed that it had a 50% chance of being lung cancer. Further tests were required. And the tests came back positive for cancer.

The cancer has had time to work its destructive magic; the lungs have all but fallen and the liver is its next intended target. For a man in his eighties, and for a cancer this advanced, chemotherapy is no longer an option. It would only make him suffer needlessly on top of the cancer that is already eating away at him. The worst case scenario for a stage-three cancer patient: three months.

I sit here very well aware that I will not get to see my grandfather again for a final time. The last time I saw him in Chongqing, his mind was on the brink of succumbing to Alzheimer's. He could still recognize who we all were, but frequently forgot where he was, and if he left the building there was a very real chance he wouldn't be able to find his way back. Seeing somebody you've known all your life to be intelligent and sharp slowly lose his most basic mental capabilities is an arduous and heartbreaking process. The person you've loved is slipping away, and in his place becomes a stranger, even to himself. At least he still has his physical health, we used to say. At least his body's still sound.

Growing up thousands of miles away from most of our family meant that the memories of my grandparents are few and far between. I remember going on a walk with both grandpa and grandma in the Beijing Aquarium, and grandpa would ask every so often if we were still in Chongqing. I remember him tending to the doves he used to raise, building little cubby holes for the doves to roost in. I remember his habit of raising terrified, timid dogs that never dared to leave the house. 

If stories were to be believed, grandpa has the exact same temperament as my dad. Excitable and easily agitated, then the storm would pass just as quickly as it gathered and to him it'll be as if nothing has happened while leaving everyone else agitated instead. Ask my grandma and she'll have hordes of stories of how he'd obstinately have an argument with a shopkeeper over something he deems completely logical, then walk away, leaving the shopkeeper flabbergasted and red-in-the-face. Substitute 'grandpa' with 'dad' and my mom will have almost the exact same stories.

I'm sorry that I can't say that I know my grandfather well. From what I've heard and gathered, he's an honorable, honest and hardworking man that has lived through far more during the Chinese cultural revolution than many of us will in our lifetimes. Our grandparents are heroes. They've planted their feet firmly on the ground when the world was shaking and crumbling around them. In a time too cruel for us to even imagine, they've thrived. Each one of us is here today because they were strong when they needed to be. I think it's time for us to be strong for him. In his time of dire need, where he will likely face the toughest challenge of his life, we will surround him with love, even from the other side of the world where I am.

What is the legacy, then, that my grandfather will eventually leave behind? Is it in the number of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren that bear his last name? Is it in the worldly achievements attained by his descendants? Or is it in the knowledge that a family loves and sticks through everything together, no matter the differences or troubles faced? Years from now, when I think of my grandpa, I want to think of the family I knew with him as the patriarch. The thing that makes me feel warmest is the image of all of us, extended family and all, sitting together at a table filled with a hearty home-cooked meal. In my memory, I look up and there grandpa is, sitting at the head of the table, and that to me is legacy. 

Three Discoveries

This summer I learned three things about my past. Previously tight-lipped about her past, my mother has recently been more willing to talk about the circumstances of our family's lives more than twenty years ago. Perhaps my mother and I are both realizing that these summer vacations where I get to spend months at home are going to become few and far between. In our time spent together this summer, I have strangely come to learn a lot about myself, things I would never have discovered on my own.

Incredible things like,

I. My godfather was a leader of a Taiwanese triad. 

When my mom was working as a waitress in Madison to support the family (Dad's measly income for being a PhD student couldn't feed 3 mouths), she struck up a great working relationship with her boss Bobby, who would later be named my godfather. According to their rival restaurant's proprietor, wee Bobby worked for said rival restaurant when he was just a laddy with a penchant for busing tables and sharpening katanas. (I'm assuming all Asian mobs use katanas, for why wouldn't they?) After having a irreconcilable disagreement with his boss, being the enterprising little mobster my god-daddy was, he rallied up his contacts and founded his own restaurant, while at the same time demanding that the rival restaurant be shut down. Only after certain negotiations,which I'm hoping involved machetes and outrageous fake-italian accented curses, were they allowed to keep their business open and running. He's not an unreasonable man, that god-daddy of mine.

Of course, after this casual reveal by my mom halfway through dinner last night, all I could think of was whether the crisp $100 bill he sent me for my 10th birthday (practically like handing over the keys of a Swiss bank to a kid that age) came at the cost of some high-stakes criminal shenanigans. I can only dream.

II. I was a left-hander by birth, right-hander through conditioning.

I almost cried when I heard this. All my life I held a deep obsession for left-handers while cursing the heavens for forcing upon me a life time of cheap, common right-handedness. As it turns out, it was apparently my parents who forced little defenseless James to switch over to using his right hand. Their reasoning was that the world was built for right-handers, and didn't want me to always have to be in combat with the right-handed chopstick user on my left at the dinner table. Friends have always asked me why I hold my fork and spoon the left-handed way, and I just always said it felt right. Mom and Dad, you can try to suppress this but my true nature will find dastardly ways to reveal itself. Soon.

III. I was a foul mouthed sassy little bitch at the age of 2.

This should come to no surprise to anyone who knows me, but it actually surprised me. According to my mother, when I was a little toddler just mastering the basic ABCs of pejorative curses and racial slurs, a woman walked into the elevator we were occupying. I took one look at the woman and proclaimed in a most amazed voice to my mother: "Mom this woman is TOO UGLY!". To my credit, years later when she told the story to me, mom did affirm that the woman was indeed of a hog-faced disposition. I can only hope the poor lass didn't have her life shattered by a sassy-mouthed toddler.

Beijing - Week 1

Day 1 of my captivity. Impending doom looms over my head. My oppressors, henceforth referred to as Mother and Father, have kept me in a cell, in a foreign land known to the locals as Beijing, with a bed so thin you can feel each individual metal rail beneath. Such utter cruelty, but my thin hide will have to weather the harsh conditions for now. My sentence was to infiltrate a Beijing law firm while keeping up the pretense that I could make heads or tails of their Chinese documents. I prayed for salvation at night, prayed for free WiFi, prayed for the children without fresh water or tamagochis, for the transvestites without the proper parts and the gays without Grindr.

Day 2. Like a common criminal, I was transported by car to the legal facilities under close supervision of two female guards. I was brought before the reigning supreme ruler of Lawyer Kingdom, and he decreed that I was to shadow their best lawyer and absorb her essential life-forces. She looked suspiciously like my previous boss from the hospital at UW, and for a brief moment I wondered if they were long-lost siblings, then wondered if asphyxiating from choking on bubble-tea pearls would be a tasty tapioca-filled experience. I was assigned a work-space, where all of my slavely duties were to be performed. I sneakily befriended the receptionist and received the WiFi-password to their facilities. Tumblr is making my life here slightly more bearable. God bless memes, and god bless kittens that haven't mastered typing.

I am to make my own way back to my cell, which is simply cruelty at its very finest. Navigating the public transport in Beijing is like rape - if you don't use some force, you'll never enter. The city of tens of millions are all mobilized during peak hours, and buses are a cesspool of inadvertent groping and awkward butt-to-butt/crotch-to-butt touching. After a few transfers, I am dropped off at the wrong gate by the zoo (which I live next to), and I had to flag an illegal taxi to bring me back to my quarters. I wave goodbye to the unscrupulous woman who charged me 25 yuan for a 5 min trip but she was already gone, leaving me amidst the ripe smells of monkey feces.

Day 4 finds me making my way towards the law firm once again by bus. Nobody looks good on a bus. The most dressed up, dignified looking gentleman can get on a bus and within a few stops, get reduced to a seating, frazzled and irritable chump. Something about the combined effect of closed quarters at high heat and engine vibrations, mixed with the foul temperaments of every other passenger nudging and shoving each other just breaks you. In my heat-induced semi-coma, I wondered if bus drivers regularly have love affairs with their dumpy conductors in the dark corners of bus-parking-lots, and if they use sexual bus-terminology like 'beep beep the bus is pulling into the station'. Before I could finish a compilation list of all the bus-puns they could use, however, my attention was unfortunately diverted across the aisle to the man persistently digging his nose with only his pinkie, because he's classy like that. He then used said pinkie to swipe across the screen of his white iPhone, and I wept for the hard work of all the Chinese children in Apple sweatshops.

I was summoned to King Lawyer's office, where I was told that they were slightly disappointed in my proficiency in Chinese. Their original plan for me to read cases and discuss them with my mentor is falling apart because I was pretty much only able to read Chinese take-out menus. As usual, Father had lied to me. When I expressed my concern about not being able to handle documents in Chinese, he assured me that my disabilities in deciphering ancient hieroglyphic-codes would be conveyed to the firm, but apparently they were expecting a student that grew up in China. The game-plan was changed, and I was now to study Chinese procedural law (if they can find the English versions) and go observe cases at court (if they'd allow non Chinese citizens in).

Hands

Madison at night, where the drunks emerge to sway to their tipsy tango, where hobos cuddle outside shopfronts for warmth in the sub zero winter. We avoided the busy main street to avoid the rowdiness, choosing instead a quieter, parallel street. On the way to your car, we talked about your work but I wasn't really listening, for you reached over and commented on how cold my hands were. That's the way it is, I said, freezing hands run in my family. In astonishment you rubbed my fingers between your own toasty palms, and I let you. Then I stopped you by interlacing my fingers with yours and we were holding hands for the first time, and you let me.

Greater Context

I had resolved to write you off as one of those types. The type that promises but never fulfills, that keeps you waiting but never delivers, the type that disappoints. I’d seen my fair share and I was tired-no, exhausted of them. I keep flying back and forth across the world always expecting it to be different on the other side of the world, but of course it never is. I was resolved to be strong, to be able to say that this was it and I’d be finally to move on without putting you on a pedestal that nobody else could ever reach. 

As fate would have it, I came face to face with you as I was rounding the corner by the waffle store. A flash of surprise, recognition, then panic, coursed through my mind simultaneously. For a split second I considered making a run for it. I had already taken a step in that direction but then turned back, for I was simply not capable of taking another step away from you, from the one person that I hadn’t been able to stop dreaming bout. I thanked the heavens for my foresight in doing up my hair, thanked the lord for not yet killing my will to look presentable while making my mid-day lunch run. I kept my composure as you asked if you could make up for standing me up previously, and somehow I kept my voice unwavering as I said you could come over that night. I only noticed how fast my heart was racing as I nodded and nonchalantly walked away. All the way home I couldn’t keep that stupid silly grin off my face.

That night, when you were here, I asked if you noticed we were sitting in the exact same positions on my bed as the day we first met. In the past year, I had forgotten how easy our repertoire was, how absolutely perfect our conversation and laughs flowed. I tried dating in Madison but no one came close to replicating this undeniable magic we could create. At that moment I knew that I still loved you, that I hadn’t managed to stop loving you despite how hard I tried, and maybe in a romance drama set in the mid-1800s it would mean something but apparently not today. In a better state of mind, I would perhaps ask myself if I had any idea what I was jumping back into, but then again, would they call it love if it didn’t drive you crazy?

“Come here,” I said as I lied down on the pillow by you. You were hesitant, halting, and I asked why you were so scared of me. You didn’t want us to do something we’d end up regretting, but aren’t we perhaps a year late for that conversation? I placed my hand on your face, then on the back of your neck, pulling you forward. You moved closer, closer till our lips were an inch apart, with only our breaths colliding. We were still for a moment, and it seemed as though all the heartbreak we had inflicted upon each other was lingering in the space between our lips and to seal them was to say that it had been all worth it and that the impending pain would be ours to willingly bear. When my lips finally met yours, I felt a sense of homecoming. I was back where I had been longing to, afraid to, but needed to. 

The following morning I woke up with a start, like that kind of awakening one gets as if remembering someone’s supposed to be in bed with you. Except you’re not, and that sense of grief I had felt a year ago came unwelcomingly back. I had been ready to do more that night, but you wanted to wait till I returned from my trip to Beijing. Was this what my love life boiled down to? The only one I could connect with lives in the one place I couldn’t even legally reside anymore, and instead of moving on I had only managed to reaffirm in my mind how fantastic we were together. 

How could two people that were perfect everywhere else be so fucked in the grand context?

Gazing

There we laid, upon grass that lightly tickled out necks, as we crossed off another cliche - star gazing. With the light breeze fluttering between our toes, you traced a finger across my arm and said that stars made you realize how insignificant we all were, in the grand scheme of things. In the eyes of the universe we are but a speck. I disagreed. Look at all those millions upon millions of stars, I said. Screw the stars because they are the ones that are insignificant. Each one twinkling with the same one-pixel glow, half perhaps already dead by the time its light found its way to earth. I turned to you and affirmed that there was only one of you, there ever only will be one of you, and what I had was more impressive than the stars.

Needle

I'm not someone who's afraid of needles. I know of many friends who would rather stare down the  cross-dressing Satan lobster monster from Powerpuff Girls (the scariest cartoon rendition of anything I've ever seen) than be in the general vicinity of a needle. Even as a kid, I'd face mandatory injections or blood-draws with a stoic bravado not usually present in me. Having something stuck in me was simply not that terrifying for me, a rule that would prove to be true later on in my adult life as well. Very adult, in fact.

I used to go for weekly facial sessions with Annie, who would prick my face with a needle for hundreds of times, and then squeeze out all the 'bad' blood that cause blemishes. The process takes two to three hours at a time, and you'd think that having a needle hovering above your face all that time would be just unbearable, but in the name of beauty, I stuck it out and eventually came to adore it. When I moved away from Singapore, I still dream of having facials done and miss the fantastic bundle of gossipy energy my Taiwanese beautician has. 

As a result, I was under the impression that if I could take Annie's weekly prickling for 7 whole months, I can withstand a tattoo needle without screaming bloody murder and threatening to slaughter the tattoo artist's entire family and dog. I had found the perfect design, a Japanese haiku, written in calligraphy, that translates to "The thief, left behind, the moon in my window". With my design in mind, I made an appointment with the Blue Lotus lounge, reputably the best place for tattoos in Madison.

Heart pounding, I walked into the tattoo parlor.  I had probably never felt so intimidated in my life, I felt like I was in a classic fish-out-of-water movie where the hero (me, in this case) has to overcome his distance among the people on the other side of the tracks where hilarious misunderstandings ensue, after which they all come to have a deeper understanding and begrudging respect for each other. And this was only after I made it up the first flight of stairs.

To my surprise, Noah asked if I wanted to get it done right there and then. I was only scheduled for a consultation but he had a cancellation which left him free to do mine, if I wanted to. I faltered for a milisecond and decided to do it. It was long overdue, and with the perfect design I figured I might as well get it done now so it can begin healing. Hence began the process. 

He had me lie on the side (I wanted it on the right side of my ribs) while he prepared the ink and the strangely medieval-looking needle. "It's gonna hurt a little," he said. "So remember to breathe." 

Nothing could have quite prepared me for that first contact. The needle buzzing, I felt a sharp piercing on my side, like a rusty vibrating fork scratching me to death. Every few second or so he would lift the needle up and wipe away the excess ink, then go back for it. The worst of the pain came when he started working on the bits that were directly above my ribs, where there was contact with bone. It felt like someone was trying to drill into my bone, and the vibration would slow down as you felt the needle bouncing on your bone. I wondered why I was subjecting myself to such torment as an involuntary tear flowed down my cheek onto the sterile-wrapped chair.

"Is it over?" I moaned when he took a longer-than-usual pause.

"Nope." He replied, while another tattoo artist laughed in the distance.

After probably 20 minutes, my suffering was finally over. It was like I birthed a child, only from my ribs, and my child was a beautifully inked calligraphy of a haiku. My breath caught as I checked it out in a mirror - it was absolutely mesmerizing. My right arm was sore from holding it over my head all throughout the process, but amazingly, that was the only thing that hurt. The fresh tattoo was red around the edges like a burn wound, but apart from that it didn't feel like anything at all. 

I walked out feeling completely empowered and probably high from the endorphins released when I was in pain. I promised I would get one with Jaystine when I was back in Singapore, we'll see if I manage to find another perfect design by then.

Collisions

They say there's no such thing as coincidence - especially fictional TV detectives with a penchant for removing and replacing their sunglasses as they deliver one-liners - but of course there is. The world was built on coincidence. Life began as a series of infinite random collisions until atoms and molecules finally meshed in a way that sparked off life. You and I were both products of random coincidences, it just so happened that it was that spurt of your father's ejaculate that found its way to your mother's rarely hospitable uterus, and by chance they found themselves at a point in life where they didn't have to suck you out with a vacuum, so hooray for you.

So don't tell me everything happens for a reason. Why would it? The universe isn't conspiring to make you happy, and it isn't planning a grand finale where you will finally make sense of it all while learning little lessons from all the seemingly-bad things that happened to you. Because the universe doesn't give a crap. No one's out there puppeteering your life, basically everything that happens to you happened by chance. You ask why do bad things happen to good people. Why? Because fuck you, that's why. Things happen, sometimes they're excellent like french toast served in bed by an army of midgets, sometimes they're terrible like homeless people who look you in the eye as they masturbate on the street. Ever notice how you only start believing that 'things happen for a reason' after something good happens later on? That's you searching for connections where they don't exist, connecting the dots from a now-comfortable vantage point.

I believe that nothing happens for a reason. Absolutely nothing. The world doesn't owe you happiness, and trying to rationalize everything as something potentially meaningful would just be self-denial. So when good things happen, don't take it for granted and when bad things happen don't take it personally. People happen to be shitty and disasters occasionally happen. In the grand scheme of things, we're just little tiny molecules bumping into each other, hoping that one of those collisions would be slightly more meaningful than the other million.

Opening Night

Describe the perfect date.

"Do people really still ask these unoriginal cliches? Dinner and a movie, awkward hand-touching in the cinema and pathetic single-stemmed roses, hastily purchased 10 minutes prior to the date? To me, the crux of a good date isn't about what two people do or how much he spends, but instead about the hope it gives them. A perfect date is one where neither party ever develops the impatient toe-tap, the stifled half-yawn, or the inconspicuous watch-glance. To me, the best dates are the ones that are completely unstructured. Just head out together, with nothing planned and no tables booked, no cute script memorized and no discussion questions prepared for moments of awkward silence. 

One time we just took a walk together with no intention of going anywhere. A passing comment about how Library Mall's construction was finally completed after two years led to us deciding to walk along the new pathway instead. That change in course brought us to the newly renovated museum's gift shop. Little comments about the painfully pointless decor that the gift shop sold made me optimistic; you can't hate so many of the same things without having some sort of genuine connection. The back and forth repertoire was organic and sitcom-funny without being rehearsed, the casual way his hand sometimes lingered on the small of my back thrilled without being overly PDA-ish.

From the gift shop we entered the museum-actual, and realized that we stumbled on to the grand opening night of the newly refurbished Chazen. We were among the work of Warhol and Picasso, and I was enthralled by the beauty he resonated, glowing even beside masterpieces of the greatest artists the world has seen. Perhaps the timing was what made all this even more magical than it surprisingly turned out to be - it was exactly two months after the last time I'd seen my previous, which was in turn exactly two months after we first met. I was slowly being brought back to the mentality of believing in relationships. 

For me, at least, this was a date that I perhaps needed most at that juncture of my life. It gave me a boost of hope and a taste of what I'd been missing, as well as the touch of a man I'd come to dream about for months to come. The unfortunate fact that I'd been unceremoniously dumped without warning a few weeks later didn't change the fact that it was a date I deeply cherished. As easy as it is to write him off as a lying, manipulative jerk, but that wasn't the question now was it? The perfect date, that was what I'd gotten."

Return to Monona Terrace

On a whim I decided I had to get out of the apartment. Episode after episode of 'Don't Trust the Bitch in Apt 23' was doing nothing to help prepare me for my impending finals, so with much difficulty I managed to tear myself away from James van der Beek's magnetic narcissism (for those who haven't seen the show, JVDB is not the bitch in question) and with my 'les francais sans frontiers' textbook in tow, headed out to seek a haven of quiet solitude. 

I found myself back at Monona Terrace. It's been almost exactly an entire year since I've been here, the last time being the time where Damian visited me, and we spent out first night here on the terrace overlooking Lake Monona, freezing in the uncharacteristically cool summer breeze and shooting the shit. The most fascinating pair of dastardly minds finally reunited, we were together again and unstoppable. The me back then, that kid, thought he survived so much and was so proud of himself while having no idea what was impending. That self-congratulatory smug chump, thrilled beyond belief to finally see an old friend, still not quiet believing that the prospect of Celine in Vegas is in fact real, and most of all eager leave Madison. 

As I sit here now in this same spot, with barely 2 weeks left before heading to Singapore, I come to the strangest realization that I'm not as eager to jump on the plane and take off. I have been missing my family and best friends so much that I frequently dream of them, and I have no doubt that their ever-lasting presence in my life has been crucial to my survival here, but I think I have been beginning to separate my lives. I need them in my life, but at the same time I have to accept that my 'life in Singapore as I know it' is over. I am no longer the boy who lives in Singapore and studies occasionally in the US. I have been, in fact, for two years now, the guy who lives in the US and occasionally visits Singapore. My life and future here needs to be the constant with visiting as Singapore a bonus. Perhaps I am not so eager to leave now because I have found footing here. In a manner I believe it's a sign of personal growth, that I'm not running back to the familiar at the first sign of trouble, but rather willing to stick it out. 

If I had the chance to go back in time and talk to a 20 year old me, I doubt he would believe what I had to say. He wouldn't believe that he'd truly fall in love for the first time, that he'd finally find the perfect design for that long-awaited tattoo, that he'd have his heart so irrevocably smashed that he'll still wake up on tear-soaked pillows, that he'll have his hair cut short, that he'll construct the perfect blanket fort, that allies in his fraternity are closer than he thought. I would tell him anyways, I would tell him to be magnanimous with love, to care even if someone else wouldn't, to have the strength to pick up the pieces even though he knew the consequences going in. I would tell him that he hasn't seen anything yet, because maybe a 22-year-old James would one day say the exact same words to me.

What Hurts The Most

"You know what's fucked up? When all of a sudden, someone just wakes up and decides to never talk to you again. No reason. No explanation. No words said. They just leave you hanging like you never meant shit to them, and what hurts the most is how they make it look so easy." 

You're single? Why? 

"Why would you possibly ask me that? What do you want me to say, that after everything I've done I am still left with nothing tangible to show for it? I am single because clearly I fucked up somewhere, or that I am fucked up somewhere. I am single because watching old movies and drinking wine is a full time job, because I'd rather drill holes in my bones than degrade myself trying to appear like-able to jerks, because I am better than the person I let myself get cheapened to. Are you asking because you're looking for me to tell you how much more comfortable I am being independent, so you can feel more comfortable about flaunting your new relationship around me? Or are you asking because you subconsciously want me to think deeply about how I'm lacking as compared to you, and that I need to reevaluate and restructure my life to be more like you? You wanna know why? I'll tell ya why. I'm single because I didn't forward all those chain emails as a kid and now I'm paying for it."

21

I always refer people to the trusty world of Myer-Briggs personality profiles when I'm accused of over-thinking. I can't help it, I would say. INFJs have a predisposed condition where we can't help but over-analyze every facet of our lives. This almost-crippling mentality has led to many instances where I just stand in a store for, staring at a product while my mind races with possibilities and calculations of every possible scenario that can result from this purchase. No shop-keeper likes a guy who just stands there in a daze, especially if he's salivating over a set of porcelain kitchen knives. Makes me look positively demented. 

But as I turn 21, I couldn't help but wonder, as Carrie often does, what does being 21 mean? A seemingly arbitrary selection of an age that is supposedly the time where we're magically responsible, or at least responsible enough to vote and to drink. There is definitely a thrill of finally being able to get into a bar, to be able to purchase alcohol, to be able to be publicly intoxicated and not give a damn. But is the chase of a drink all 21 really means? It's not as if I've been unable to easily get some alcohol, especially in college and in a town where we spit in the face of drinking-age laws on a weekly basis. 

Is it the symbolism of being a true adult? It is, after all, the final age where people actually look forward to. After this it's gonna be a long road of learning to live with your age instead of celebrating it. I believe our modern world is one where innocence is lost early but maturity is gained late. We have legions of men-child and baby-sluts, possessing both the complicated mindsets and sexuality of adults with the impulses and emotional in-capabilities of children. I have done some very adult things, but at heart I often feel like a child. I feel like I'm masquerading as someone who has things under control, who is able to go out there and conquer it all by himself, but on the inside I feel just as easily bruised as a much younger me would. 

In earlier generations, a 21 year old would have been married with children and earning the bread and butter for his family, but here we are, still living off our parents' money and going to school and being our professors' bitch. A 21 year old in our world really has none of that adult burden; a simple walk down a college's main street with the stumbling drunks (as I have been for many times) would prove as much. We're really all still children. So what does this age mean then? To me, I believe it's a point where I have to recognize that my adult life is ahead of me, and that this is a point of new beginnings. What I do now can no longer be based on the years of childish whims behind me, but instead on this whole new exciting world of adulthood. 

I think that recognizing that I don't have everything figured out is the point of being 21. If nothing else, it's a place to take a pause and reevaluate where I am and where I want to be, because whether we like it or not, the future is coming right at us.

Only If For A Night

After years of being concert-deprived on the island of Singapore, where mega-stars never tend to visit, I developed a sort of compulsion to attend the concerts or shows of anyone I'm even remotely interested in. The concept of 'there'll be another time' will never occur to me, for I have been brought up to believe that you get one shot and then it's over.

It should come as little surprise then, that for someone as completely amazing as Florence Welch of Florence + the Machine, I would make the trek down to the city of Milwaukee, 1.5 hours from Madison by bus. The concert is held at The Rave's Eagles Ballroom, and apparently, as Florence herself told us later on, it was one of the most haunted venues in the country. Ghosts would drown guests back in the 19th century as they swam in the basement's pool, tickling their feet and yanking them to their watery graves. Absolutely perfect for a Florence concert. 

The ticket I had purchased was for the VIP balcony section, but a quick survey of the venue proved the balcony to be a completely ridiculous place to sit for a concert. It was far away and slanted in an oblong oval shape, utterly pointless for a concert where you'd want to be as intrusive to the performer's private space as possible. I wanted to be so close that Florence's flowly sleeves could possibly slap me across the cheeks as she twirled around the stage. I abandoned the idea of the balcony and instead got in the standing floor area where I slowly inched my way towards the front and center of the stage. I got to about 15 feet from the mic-stand before encountering a group of delicious looking strangers that I would like to accidentally rub up against in the darkness of a concert, and hence I halted my journey there. 

To my utter disappointment, there was an opening act. I have never enjoyed openers, and I know they have it tough, trying to get a crowd to like you when all they want is for your cheap low-fat pudding ass off the stage and to bring on the main course. This guy was particularly awful, singing in a whiny whispery tone that seemed like a bad Michael Jackson impression. I had never seen so many people on their phones and talking to each other while an act was on. People might as well start standing with their backs to him. Just when I thought I could take no more, God must have heard my plea for he struck a girl down with a fainting spell, and right in-front of me, no less. I outwardly gasped as she fell to the ground but inwardly squealed with delight that there was something to place my attention on. The circle of people around her backed off slightly to give her some breathing room, but of course no one wanted to go get help and abandon their prime spots. The opening act continued playing his stupid electric guitar, oblivious that people were fainting in protest of his awkward horrid-ity.

The setting up of the band instruments took another half an hour after the opener finally left, and the lights dimmed exactly at 9pm. The crowd began screaming and stomping and I wondered if this ancient building was built to withstand this. Amidst the drumming and blueish fog, there she finally appeared, stately and majestic in a greco-inspired cape. Florence strode over to her mic, and it was magic from the first notes she sang. The crowd pulsated with a feverish, electric energy, almost trance-like, as we let her ethereal beauty possess us. Artistically, it was perhaps the best concert I had witnessed. Celine's Vegas show was huge and grand and has its own merits, but Florence's set was simply art. Unlike many 'artists' today who go for elaborate, jarring costumes in the name of 'art', Florence's persona just seemed natural and authentic. When a singer is genuinely creative, you don't have to go out of your way to shove it into everyone's faces, so by simply being connected to her music, she was demonstrating true artistry without resorting to 'shock value'. 

She is a completely enchanting and weird person, especially when talking to the audience. She spoke of the ghosts in the basement, and invited us to summon the ghosts up to the ballroom where she dedicated 'Leave My Body' to them, because she thinks ghosts are misunderstood. To my delight, she had us do the thing where we all jumped up and down rapidly during the last chorus of 'Dog Days are Over', something I had seen her do with an audience at a music festival. At that time I just thought that being in that crowd would be amazing, and never imagined I would be part of it right there and then. The asshats up in the balcony must be just kicking themselves. The floor is always where it's at. 

The show went on till it was almost 11, and by then I had missed the last bus back to Madison. I was stuck in Milwaukee with my phone almost dead and no place to go, and it was just the prime time for all the crazies and the junkies to start emerging from their holes. Why are they so interested in getting me to talk to them? Do they think I just walk around with my big bag of drugs and distribute it to whoever that says hi to me? They really need to reevaluate their game-plan if this is their primary way of getting high. 

The only thing left to do was to check in to a cheap hotel to spend the night, and then head back home the following morning. Wherever Florence is, I hope she knows what I've been through just to hear her talk about ghostly problems. 

Epilogue

Our final days together were fraught with equal amounts of anxiety and depression, tears and resentment. As much as I wanted to accept my loss with the grace and wisdom of an adult and not the screaming grief of a child, I couldn't fake it. Now, curiously, a friend was put in a similar situation, and I was prompted into looking at the epilogue of our story.

I remember being at the 1 Altitude bar. I was having drinks with Damian and Jaystine at the rooftop of the tallest building in Singapore, soaking and relishing in the last 3 days I have left before heading back to Madison. From up here, problems seem so far and tiny in the distance, nothing but insignificant specks of blinking lights. We talked about life, of love, of the inappropriate pictures of us on my phone and of how I should put a password lock on my phone if I had half a brain. Over tequila sunrises and Moscow mules, we shared our respective fears and dreams of the future. Unlike the kids we all once knew each other as, we are all now standing on the cusp of adulthood, all uncertain but hopeful.

I remember receiving a text message from you, as we were just on the topic of you. Perhaps talking about how you once got to skip work on the account of your uncle's death but first came over to do the naughty with me while keeping me in the dark about it. Or perhaps about our first date where you fed me chocolates by the river. In your text message, you asked me where I was, and said that you had just finished watching a play of some sort. I told you about our little night out on 1 Altitude, and for the moment put you out of my mind as I leaned out over the glass barriers and stuck my head into the wind, letting it take my breath away. 

I remember we were just getting ready to leave, walking towards the elevators that would bring us back down to the first floor. The elevator doors chimed open, and thunder struck through my body as I recognized you on the other side. There you were, just half-smirking in that devilish manner I had first fallen in love with, as if this dramatic entrance was what you had been planning all along. These movie-magic moments, scenes where, if I had seen in a movie I'd have found completely unrealistic, were happening in my own life. Were these the reasons why we go through everything we do, just to experience for once in a lifetime, such exquisite bliss? 

I remember the four of us sitting by the pier of the Singapore river, the waters lapping at our ankles as distant music drifted by from bars across the river, providing the backdrop of what I would soon come to know as our last real conversation. A cover band in one of the bars across us was playing Jason Mraz's I'm Yours, I could hear, appropriate considering I had done a version of that for you around the beginning of our relationship. The four of us talked and laughed a lot and I was surprising myself that I could find humor at this juncture. At least it's ending on a good note, I told myself. My leaving was pushed to the back of my mind for now, but it was resiliently edging forwards.

I remember you walking me home and taking the lift up with me as usual. Before exiting, I turned back and sneaked in one final kiss. 

That was the last time I ever saw you. 

On the last day before I left, I was in Damian's room where I received a text message from you, saying that you're not going to see me again, citing how it was going to make things too difficult. I was alone while Damian was getting drinks or making a call. I stared at my phone for a beat, jaw hanging open, then cried when I realized I wouldn't see you again. I cried at your cruelty, at the abrupt loss of the one thing I held most dear to my heart for months. Then I gathered myself up before Damian came back, for I wanted to let him see me leave with my head held high. There was time enough for tears after I had passed through Changi's departure gate.

After living in a daze for two months back in Madison, I realized that something very fundamental in me changed. Or was broken. I was weak now, or at least the kind of person the old me would consider weak. Neurologists would chalk it up to symptoms related to dopamine withdrawal, romantics would call it heartbreak. Regardless, I knew I would never be the same person again. Part of that scares me. Areas in which I once was ruthless towards, I now had more compassion. In situations that demanded my trust though, I grew skeptical and cautious. I believed in the strength and power of love now, yes. But I also saw the darkness of betrayal. I would always consider, perhaps unfairly, that your one-sided decision to not see me one last time an act of betrayal, but that is simply the way I have been forced to regard the events. 

It took seven months for me to be able to write about this. To this day, even after all this time, not one day passes where I don't think about you. In a very pathetic sense, whenever I picture what my future would be like, I would still unconsciously cast you as the star, there by my side. Does dopamine reliance really last this long? Do the scientists have answers for this? 

When my friend, in this oddly similar situation, asks me if it was worth it, I'd say, "yes, if he makes it worth it." You made it worth it because you were worth it. 

I only hope I was worth it.

Run

Fight or flight: The two basic instincts all animals are born equipped with. When faced with a problem, you either handle it or you run. But can we run from our problems? We've heard it so many times, reinforced by old adages from the pseudo-wisdom of supposedly more experienced past generations, that we probably all have this notion that running never solves a problem. We're encouraged to stay and deal with issues, to be headstrong and tough. It's a sign of weakness if you choose to avoid instead of confront, or so we are led to believe. 

Why then, does nature provide two options for animals in danger if the 'right' thing to do is to fight? All animals, by that definition, should evolve fangs and talons that enables them to take on predators and prey alike. But that's clearly not the case. Some have adapted by evolving longer legs and better stamina, for the sole purpose of fleeing the scene in dire times. The simple fact of the matter is that fleeing is many a time a very viable, and often superior, option. 

Sure, you can't run from debt, from oppressive parents, from the emotional wreck of a past relationship. Some things find a way to stick with you for life, and no amount of running is going to solve it. But I have always appreciated the wisdom in fleeing today to fight tomorrow. Running and getting some distance between you and your problem can really help put things in perspective. Everything looks different from a distance, and perhaps the new outlooks gained in life would be the very things that eventually lead you towards the resolution of your problems.

So I say run. Run as fast and far as you can. Your problems will be waiting for you when you're ready to handle it, there's no rush for now.

The 180

A person's hair says so much about them. Our whole personalities can be read from our hairstyles, much like how a palm-reader decodes the mysteries of our palm-lines. I should know; I've read like, an entire palmistry book cover to cover so I'm pretty much a certified palm-reader now. The trick is in deciding which lines you want, then forcefully insisting that you have those lines.

But back to hair. Here I have compiled a few simple ways to judge a person's character by their looks:

For men:

- Crew cut: This is a no-nonsense guy who doesn't like spending unnecessary time primping up his hair. He probably cut his hair short to avoid having it being pulled out by his rape-victim and hence leaving clues to his DNA at the crime scene. A buzz cut also suggests a military or prison background, so it's a fair bet to say that he's probably had some man on man action at some point in his life.

- Afro: This man has no self-respect and hides everything from used needles to medical-grade marijuana to Bob Marley records in his big hair of secrets.

- Faux-hawk: This guy really wants to be edgy but is afraid of what his mom'll say. Almost certainly would give out handsies for a bit of low-grade blow.

For women:

- Pixie cut: This girl think she's being fashion forward when all she's really doing is appealing to the sexually confused men who would do her because she looks less of a woman than her long-haired counterparts.

- The french twist: This woman is uptight at day but surprisingly open to role-playing at night. Is also the type who manipulates men into doing her then accusing them of rape when she's retelling the story to her friends.

Now my own hair has, for the past two years, been a constantly evolving entity. Every since my liberation from the draconian Singaporean school system that seeks to oppress self-expression through follicle manipulation, I have been on a mad rampage to reclaim the time wasted. Six months ago I went completely platinum blond. The upkeep was time consuming and expensive but I loved it, until my stylist switched studios. I wouldn't let anyone else touch my hair, my hair being the only safeguard keeping me from turning into a wide-foreheaded alien-looking thing. I simply don't have the trust in my bosom to offer it to someone who isn't intimately familiar with my Goldilocks locks.

Tuesday night I had a flash of inspiration. I wanted to go in a completely new direction, and the closest to what I had in mind was a look they're calling the 'brit rock hairstyle'. Cropped short all around, leaving a long top and fringe to style with as I like. I had a frantic back and forth text-plotting with Stylist Amber, and it was settled: I was to forge my way into Middleton, an hour away by bus, and we'd work on my new look together.

I enjoy bus rides, I truly do. Having the time to pensively sit for a while and think of nothing but the passing scenery; it's a luxury these days. We pass by a cemetery, and I contemplated about how fantastic a place it would be to picnic there. Cemeteries are such peaceful and sacred grounds, and no matter how awful things seem outside, within that zone it feels as if nothing's an issue. I think I'd enjoy lying there and thinking about how many hundreds of stories all of these dead people around me have, and how many of them are still being retold to loved ones. Or if any of them have loved ones left. Morbid, yes. But titillatingly so.

I arrive at Studio 262 in Middleton after a refreshingly thoughtful bus ride. This studio is so much more stylish than Hair Forum, with all the stylists clad in black and sleek dark colors around the salon. Amber and I decided on a look we would go for, and I decided to dye my hair a lot darker to suit the edgier, punkier tone. My previous almost completely pale hair provided a blank slate for any color to latch onto. This was the result:

As you can tell, I've gotten diamond ear studs too. My ears were feeling extremely naked after the haircut, and as I was thinking this, I passed by a jewellery stand that was advertising free piercings. The Lord Oprah herself couldn't have given me a clearer sign. I had been putting off getting my ear pierced for a while cause I was afraid it would hurt, but then remembered that 13 year old girls get them all the time. If I could withstand Annie's facials of a hundred needle pricks every week for 7 months, I can handle two little piercings. And legitimately, it didn't hurt the slightest. There was some pressure as she punched the ear-stud directly into my ear lobe, and it felt a teensy bit warm for a minute, but that was pretty much the extent of it. I do enjoy them, they make up for the barrenness that my lack of sideburns caused.

As Ralph Lauren said, everyday is an occasion to reinvent yourself. We can live different lives through the personal styles we create and project, and it's exciting just to embody a drastically altered ego for a while.

A Pointless iTunes Analysis

Number of Songs: 6375

Top 10 Most Played (No Repeat Artists):

1. Close My Eyes - Mariah Carey
2. 勇敢 - A-mei
3. How Come You Don't Call Me Anymore - Alicia Keys
4. The Nearness Of You - Barbra Streisand
5. S'il suffisait d'aimer - Celine Dion
6. 好久不见 - Jay Chou
7. 突然累了 - JJ Lin
8. Hand In My Pocket - Alanis Morrisette
9. Wish You Were Here - Avril Lavigne
10. (Drop Dead) Beautiful - Britney Spears

First 5 Songs on Shuffle:

1. Ballandai - Yann Tiersen
2. Hesitation - Stacie Orrico
3. One Less Bell To Answer/ A House Is Not A Home - Barbra Streisand
4. A Million Miles Away - Rihanna
5. Tears Dry On Their Own - Amy Winehouse

Naked Branches

My eyes are focused on the gravel that crumbles beneath my feet. There really is no discernible path, with tones of dirt and grey spreading as far as my downcast eyes could see. My calves are tightening up with the strain of the distance I have traveled while my mind is burdened by the miles I still face. My face must be streaked with sweat and dust by now. The monotonous nature of this hike leaves a void in my mind that a dark imagination is eager to fill. For a moment I allow the people who've hurt me an encore performance.

Then I lift my head up and notice for the first time the divine spidery motifs of naked branches, how they sprawl out in all directions, as if scrawled out in frantic motions by a jittery artist and his black pencil. A breeze lifted my fringe from my face for a second and carried with it my fatigue. I'm hearing things I've never heard before, as if I've been deafened by the sound of my own thoughts all this time. I hear things that couldn't possibly make sounds, but I hear it all the same. I hear my future, unmistakably, and the joyful optimism of a time to come. I chose to hold my head high from that moment on.

From 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower'

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines 

he wrote a poem

and he called it "chops"

because that was the name of his dog
and that's what it was all about
his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
and his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts

that was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
and he let them sing on the bus
and his little sister was born
with tiny nails and no hair 

and his mother and father kissed a lot
and the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
and his father always tucked him in bed at night
and was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
and that's what it was all about
and his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of the new paint
and the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
and left butts on the pews
and sometime they would burn holes
that was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
and the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
and the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
and his father never tucked him in bed at night
and his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it 

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
and he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
and that's what it was all about
and his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
that was the year Father Tracy died
and he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
and he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
and his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
and the girl around the corner
wore too much make up
that made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because it was the thing to do
and at 3 am he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
and he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
because that's what it was really all about
and he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
and he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen

Notes on Surviving a College Party

This is a piece for those who consider themselves socially awkward and behaviorally inept. If you have had a sexual encounter (with a real person who is not yourself) in the last 72 hours, this piece is not for you, you sexy beast. Rest of you, read on. 

Less socially evolved beings (such as yourself) may often find yourself at a loss when it comes to behaving in a culturally accepted manner at a gathering of alcohol, drugs and dance music, or more usually known in its layman term, a "party". More often than not, that problem would not exist as you simply might not be popular enough to be invited. If so, rejoice and go back to playing Call of Duty 3; your ability to act like a well-adjusted young adult will not be tested today. If you do somehow manage to wrangle an invitation for yourself, however, you are in luck, for how often does one get such eloquently written advice from a fraternity-veteran? Slap yourself on the back for finding such a gem. 

If you have slapped yourself on the back, congratulations, you have just reaffirmed your status as an awkward-being, if you had any doubts before. No worries, embarrassing actions like that will be eradicated by the time you attend your first college party. 

Timing is everything in a party. Even if your invite (which I doubt you have one, but let's just pretend) says that the party starts at 8, please don't be on time. The sober monitors (bouncers) for one, are super alert at that time and your chances of crashing a party are extremely slim. Show up between 10:30pm to 11pm. 

Parties are usually regulated in one of four ways: friend-only, invite-lists, buy-ins or open. Friend-only parties are smaller and only very close friends know about it, they may even be strictly restricted to fraternity brothers only. These are near impossible to crash, unless you're the girlfriend or dying cousin of a member. Bigger parties are based on invite-lists, which may or may not be strictly monitored, and you can sometimes get in if you just know someone on the list. If you do not have an invite, stick with a group that's going in at once -- once your hand's been marked, you're home free. Buy-ins are easy to get into (but they may be invite-based too), all you really have to do is to fork up around $5 for a beer cup. Parties with buy-ins are usually equipped with kegs, but those are bigger security risks with the cops. Due to legalities, parties that serve beer by the cans (as mine does) makes it harder for cops to bust the entire house for under-aged drinking. Do not bring a backpack to a party; you will not be allowed to carry it in. Parties at fraternity houses are rarely open to just anyone because thieves and homeless people exist. And if they are, you really don't want to find yourself there anyways. Have some basic sense of decency, geez.

Now you're in the party! You should be greeted by a wave of incredibly loud music, the stench of stale beer, and strobe lights. As you are socially-awkward and all, being thisclose to 250 people at once can be overwhelming. It doesn't make it better that they all seem to be dancing (and grinding, but we'll talk about that later) to different beats, none of which coincide with the whomp-whomping coming from the speakers. Your best course of action now is to locate the alcohol. The better parties plan and allocate enough beer, but the roughly planned ones may run out, so grab some cans and be selfish about it. You are now to stand by the wall and look cool, which involves taking long drags of whatever drink you have and rolling your eyes at everyone. The idea is to convey the message that you're only here because you're obligated to make appearances at big parties, and that everyone's acting like total drunk tools and you're better than them. This image may be subsequently dropped when you're eventually shitfaced. Also, locate all of the bathrooms, you will thank me later. 

 

You may or may not occasionally stumble into a conversation with a stranger at the party. If they're attractive, introduce yourself (omit your favorite LOTR characters in your self-introduction), ask about their major. Socially acceptable things to talk about includes where they're from, what they're drinking, who they know at the party... If you're crashing the party, however, omit that last question as it will only lead to your outing as a 'rando'. If they're hideous, keep saying "WHAT? THIS MUSIC IS SO LOUD! PARTY ON!" and bop your head and move along. You didn't come to a party to hook up with uglies, and any minute spent with one is a minute wasted on opportune hunting.

Games of beer-pong, baseball, flip-cup or smash would be occurring in the most crowded areas of the room. You would recognize it by the raucous laughter of college kids flinging ping-pong balls into triangularly arranged cups. Games of pong and baseball are difficult to get into without friends at the party, so I recommend avoiding it. Flip-cup, however, is largely communal and it would not be difficult to squeeze in. Two rows of party-goers form across two sides of a rectangular table, each with a bit of beer in their cup. When it gets to your turn, toss back the beer, place the cup on the edge of the table, and flip it with an upward motion so that it lands on its mouth. Simple. A lot of cheering and high-fiving goes on if your team wins, so I would avoid that if you're not into touching strangers in an exuberant manner. 

At some point in the night you may find yourself wanting to dance. The dance-floor, however, is not an all-inclusive space and you may want to reconsider. Dancing is neither required nor encouraged on the dance-floor, and the only movements you need to be capable of replicating are that of a pulsating pelvis. The dance-floor is a cruel mother, it can give so much and it can crush. Your best bet for avoiding elimination is to find someone intoxicated enough to grind with. If you look around you and everyone else has been paired up into teams of public affection, quietly and inconspicuously slink away, for you have been disqualified, you shameful rat. Don't be disheartened, however. If you are heterosexual, its very virtue guarantees a good chance for a grinding-partner regardless of how ugly one is, I have witnessed this phenomenon many times.

One in the morning is a good time to leave a party. Stay too long and things inevitably happen. The bathrooms start getting clogged up with puke, lesser beings start revealing just how susceptible to alcohol-poisoning they are, and sometimes things go missing. You wouldn't want to stick around when they start accusing people of stealing the DJ's iPod, especially if you were the one who stole it. Being the only one sobering up when everyone else is hammered can be both an eye-opening and terrifying experience. 

Do your best to avoid wobbling when walking home, and for the love of God, check that you don't have a beer on you when you leave. Carrying around a bright-red plastic cup gives cops the probable cause to stop you. They are abundant as chickens in a barnyard so don't give them a reason to book you. 

Congratulations! You have survived your very first party and hopefully made enough friends to get invited to another. Now go home and nurse that hangover (hydrate, hydrate, hydrate) and you'll have a whole week's worth of stories to impress your nerdier friends. 

You're very welcome.