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.

Worse Off

"Stop complaining, a lot of people have it worse than you do." 

"Finish your food, there are starving children in Africa." 

"Enough whining about the condom's quality, homeless people have to use discarded candy wrappers!" 

... and so forth are some examples of admonitions one might receive when voicing one's unhappiness about a given situation. People who say stuff like these work on the principle that as someone out there is definitely worse off than you are, you should feel silly about your own trivial-seeming mosquito-bites-of-a-problem and just suck it up.

I reject this logic as a) the existence of hypothetical worse-off starving/cold/uneducated/ugly people out there in the world has no bearing on my own quality of life, b) problems that exist for different people in different realms of individual contexts are not comparable and c) feeling good about your own situation because someone else suffers more is generally considered sadism. 

Somewhere out there, children are starving to death by the minute. Knowledge about that has no affect on the way each of our lives pan out. Do they become less hungry if I finish everything on my plate? My life in no way affect theirs and theirs in no way affect mine. We essentially live in entirely different worlds and feeling better or worse about anyone else's problems when you compare them against your own is silly.

People who tell us to feel better because someone else has it worse are primarily lazy individuals who do not care enough to come up with actual consolations. They promote complacency, in that your relationship problems, for example, are tolerable as compared to some poor starving child in a ditch in a third-world communist country (and he doesn't even have the luxury of drowning his problems away in vodka as you do!), ergo, you should just sit back and relish in that thought. Would humankind as a species ever get anywhere if we managed to find satisfaction in our petty problems? Looking upwards and forwards is what gets us places. 

I don't want to trivialize anyone's suffering, and the point I'm making is that everyone has problems, and the only way to truly get perspective is to actually be there. 

Crime and Punishment

My parents have always been trying to instill in me the virtues of honesty. But deceit comes so naturally to me, and has always felt like an integral part of my life. Lying makes everyone happier, because the truth is for selfish people who haven't the compassion in them to care about how damaging it is to the people you love. I lied constantly, faked grades, cheated, at times counterfeited entire report cards using the special watermarked paper that my schools actually printed report cards off of, just to escape the disapproving sigh that accompanies another bad grade. (I even had the principal's signature scanned from a different document then superimposed on my own version- it was pretty amazing.) I've always had a talent with graphic manipulation, and like geniuses who turned to lives of crime, my untethered passions took me towards the path of unrelenting deceit and a habit of taking the easy way out.

Of course, most times I didn't get away with it, and pay with blood I did. I don't know how other kids got punished, and I suppose most Chinese families hit their children when they misbehaved. Being whipped (actually belted is a more accurate and efficient usage of word; it conveys both the action and weapon in question) by my father was a memorable fixture of my childhood. I'd be thrown on the linoleum floor while leather connected with skin in bursts of cracks, each one leaving an inch-thick welt that requires two days to subside. (Bathing in cold water afterwards was preferable as hot water just made it sting like crazy.) A ten-year old me cried in very loud raspy sobs while strangely entranced by the gray accents that raced throughout the white floors. It was like everything else in the world was too fuzzy and horrible to pay attention to, so my mind chose this mundane pattern to focus on. 

"If we didn't hit you, who knows what you'd become." 

Maybe I wouldn't have any of the shivery, cold-sweat inducing bouts of panic I used to get when waiting for my dad to return from work. Teachers used to always ring up my mother when I've been a smart-ass in class, and mother would call up my dad, and I'd have the rest of the day till 6 to worry about it. I've been sent out of class more than any decent student should, and probably spent more than half my Chinese lessons either standing at my desk or outside. The camaraderie forged with your fellow insubordinate classmates while outside the classroom is fleeting. They'd sell you out in a heartbeat for a chance to get back inside. I wondered if teachers would be that quick to call if they knew the treatment waiting for me at home, but I'd much rather endure physical pain than the humiliation of begging for mercy from any of those minimal-wage losers in dead-end jobs teaching primary level.

Bleeding from a belt-induced wound is uncommon. Usually, angry red welts that raise about a centimeter off your skin forms in criss-crossing patterns but that is, of course, entirely dependent on the way you got struck. Bleeding usually occurs only when the metallic parts of the belt breaks your skin, but as my parents weren't striking to kill, that only happened occasionally when they completely lose it in a fit of rage and fury. Sometimes I wondered if neighbors could hear me screaming, so I screamed louder. But no one ever did anything about it, so I screamed louder still. I suppose we have this way about us in apartment buildings that no one is ever going to admit to hearing anything undesirable. Sometimes I can hear other kids in the building, or in the next building, yelling and crying as they got hit, so I suppose someone heard me too. 

I suppose the thing that made me saddest wasn't being hit. Even when friends asked me at school about the zebra-like markings, I didn't feel embarrassed or anything, but instead was strangely proud that I've got scars that signified something. Maybe survival. No, I was saddest when my older sister would yell that my beatings and my crying was too noisy for her to study, and she'd rather go sit outside on the steps with her assigned reading. Then again, I didn't do anything when our dad broke her bedroom door's lock with a hammer to get at her for one thing or the other, so it's not as if I have any sibling-loyalty points to reclaim.

It brings me to the question of hereditary patterns. Parents who hit had parents who hit, who in turn had parents who hit. I personally don't believe in inflicting that much pain in a being that I brought into the world. Besides, I remember what I felt towards them after each beating, and I never want my child to feel that kind of betrayal, animosity and distrust towards me. I admit I was a nasty little shit for creating my web of lies, but getting hit never really fixed anything, I just learned to hide it better. 

I don't harbor any lingering hate for my parents, of course; I love them very much. But their mentality and methods are truly incompatible with me, which was one of the main reasons I had to get away from that house that badly.