For Once In My Life...

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh wow, yours really is bad.."

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

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

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

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

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

You're A Boilermaker!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IT'S TRUE!

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

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

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

'Meh. It's alright.'

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

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

Miss me very much, darhlings.

Night Safari

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

360 Degrees of Aggravation

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

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

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

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

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

Showers of Honeydew and Cherry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Aftermath

You could never seem to grasp the concept
But each time you let yourself be swept
Off your feet, you've taken another plunge
An attitude you'll never expunge
The possibility of a new romance
Quells your fears as he makes his advance
So convinced, are you, that nothing happens by chance
Willingly submits to another hypnotic trance

He comes along, exuding charm and sophistication
You're sure his perfect image is not of your own creation
Embracing how he sets your heart a-flutter
Just his voice can melt you like hot butter
Warning bells are so easy to ignore
All else can wait, right now he's yours to adore
Love is really more deaf than blind
As unrealistic fantasy and expectations intertwine

The nagging suspicion it's falling apart
Creeps upon you like a creature of the dark
Rational thought gives way to conflicting emotion
Back and forth rallies brings your judgment into question
When asked 'what's wrong', the topic he circumvents
Communication breaks down; each text received is a major event
Emotions boil over while you wait by the phone
Not once in those five days did you not miss his cologne

The outstanding feeling was of confusion, not depression
Struggling through a swamp of mixed signals and misdirection
Repeated replaying every moment in your head
Trying to pinpoint what you should have done instead
More than once, you caught yourself pondering
If you were more attractive, would the outcome be more satisfying
Then came the usual phase of allocating blame
It falls on you, for thoughtlessly buying what he proclaimed

Words that meant, not the world, but a hell lot
Once sweet like honey, now you're force-fed distraught
He didn't set off with malicious intent
But his reluctance to commit cemented your torment
Whirlwind of europhia comes to a dead standstill
Where you felt fiery passion now holds an icy chill
But as surely as waves would crash upon a shore
A spark of hope would ignite sometime, once more

The Wonder of the Buffalo

This is probably the most awe-inspiring thing that I have ever learned bout the English language. Apart from the 72 uses of the word 'fuck', that is. The sentence:

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo

is a grammatically correct sentence, due to the fact that buffalo can be used as a noun, adjective and a verb. Incredible, isn't it. Now let's break it down.

Buffalo is a city in New York, as well as the term for the bison-like animal, and is also a verb that means 'to intimidate'. Buffalo, when used as the city, is colored red, when used as the animal is colored brown, and when used as the verb is colored blue.

Hence, 'Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo' basically means, some bison from Buffalo, that other bison from Buffalo are intimidating, is also intimidating the other bison from Buffalo at the same time.

Now you might be saying to yourself, "Now wait a minute! Shouldn't the animals be 'buffaloes' in order for the sentence to be grammatically correct?" If that is the case, you should be replying to yourself, " 'Buffalo' is also the plural form, and is equivalent to 'buffaloes'." I know. buffaloes (Or is it buffalo) should just go ahead shoot themselves for creating such a huge mess.

Pretty mind blowing stuff. I am now completely convinced that English is worth committing suicide over.

Growth

Feast your eyes upon this lovely sight, people. Ten whole minutes was spent editing it on Photoshop. Yup. You heard me right. *Ten*. James is a dedicated and hard working boy who isn't afraid to put in a lot of time and effort! Right.

So the title of this compilation is Growth. Personal, musical, emotional betterment. As symbolized by the tree, which I now realize doesn't have many leaves. Not an entirely good sign. I found this recording studio place, which is really dirt cheap, and so I'd be recording the songs that I wanna put in this one in that studio.

And basically JMZ is my name. I hope you do know that. Seeing how you're on my blog.

The Final Half-Hour

First of all, let it be said that *I* would never be one of those "golly geez, didn't this year pass by with a blink of an eye?" people. Hell to the no. A 2 legged turtle with arthritis could outrun the glacial pace 2009 moved at. Where do I even begin recounting the tales of struggles and hardships this sweet lil' boy (I meant me, in case I wasn't specific enough) had to endure before I came to this stage of the sacred 'Final Half-Hour Reflections Time'. There was the looong wait for Mariah's album, which I'm certain made time slow down for a little bit, the A Levels, which I'm certain killed a little piece of my soul, the death of one of the biggest stars in the planet on the fateful June 25... Yes, Farrah, you will forever be missed. (What? Michael who?!) Throw in a recession, the news of Oprah's show ending and the inevitable realization that Twilight was never going to, I was desperate for the year to come to an end.

One of the things I regretted most in this year was probably the tiff in school, that affected some of us emotionally and psychologically. Hell, I wasn't even involved in the little tiff. But mess with ma girls and ya mess with me, geddit, bitch? This is impacting me more than I realize, cause I think I'm starting to sound like a New Yorker pimp. The little argument has effectively ended the friendships of some of us, but seeing how a blossoming new relationship has emerged after it, I'd say it's not entirely a bad thing. Just like how a black hole devouring Earth is not a bad thing.

I think I know why they call me a poisonous bitch now. O well.

The one good thing that came from this year is the end of my junior college days. Those were truly some of the more terrifying and traumatic experiences of my life, not counting the time when I was four and held another woman's hand and called her mom. That definitely tops the list, but JC life comes pretty close. I can't say it was all that enjoyable, apart from the time I spent with some of my school mates. I say some, because *others* just don't get the hint and won't stay away. Or shut up. Or die. I'm totally fine with them choosing any of those, I'm not picky. The 4 hour lunch-and-gossip sessions will be sorely missed. Probably not by the Delifrance staff, though. Or Burger King. Or Subway. Boy, are we a bunch of unwelcome freaks.

2009 is also the last year I would ever be a Singapore Permanent Resident. I enter the new year a complete foreigner, and my law-avoiding days will officially begin. That's right, people. My life is more interesting than yours now. Be very jealous. Live life on the edge of the visa allowance, that's what I say.

I'm running out of time here, only around five minutes left. Writing this is taking longer than I thought it would. Goes to show how much I dilly-dally when writing. I would just go off topic and being rambling about something completely ridiculous. Like ice-cream sundaes. Which are delicious, if i might add. Gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling, to be eating something with the word 'Sunday' in it. Conjures up images of fluffy birds and chirpy puppies.

Ooh I hear fireworks. the new year must be upon us.

Happy new year, darhlings.

Meet James the Alien Foreigner!

2009 will probably go down in the history books as the year of deaths. Everyone's (and by everyone, I mean the people who matter, of course. Like, celebrities.) dropping dead left and right. Golden Girls' star Bea Arthur, Charlie's Angels' star Farrah Fawcett, Clueless star Brittany Murphey, and of course, Michael Jackson. His untimely and shocking demise at the hands of his halfwit doctor has devastated the world. Another death, however, has managed to surpass the devastating effects of even the King of Pop's passing.

I am talking, of course, about the death of my PR status. *Cue dramatic background music*

Okay, so Mariah won't sing at the memorial, no one will cry, Kenny Ortega won't try to make money out of it, the legendary 'Are We Singaporeans Or Are We Not' ranch won't be converted into a theme park. But still.

It feels very weird now, not being affiliated with Singapore anymore, in any way. Sure, the other members of my whole family holds Singapore Citizenship, but whatever. After hiding behind a front of 'permanent residency', I feel as though I've now been thrust out into the world. There's even a thirty day limit, after which I would probably be jailed for staying here. You might gasp in horror and ask how can I possibly stay here for a while longer, because I sure know the pain of losing me to another country is pure torture;) The plan, ladies and gentlemen, is to apply for a long-term social visit pass. it seems outrageous, to make me apply for a visit pass to stay in my own house. Preposterous, some might say. But some also might say that my 18 year plan to avoid NS is manipulative and devious. Which I would then respond by saying, you bet your ass it is.

"You want to CANCEL your PR?" The receptionist asks, as if I could mispronounce it.

"Yes, darhlin, cancel. As in.. abolish, abort, ax, black out, blot out, break off, cross out, deface, do away with, do in, efface, eliminate, eradicate.. Are you getting the picture here? Cause I sure as hell ain't."

Handing over my Blue IC is definitely up there with all the most traumatic experiences of my life. Along with, getting stalked, getting my first facial, getting a tan (it causes skin cancer!), getting a blow job (the blow dryer really made my hair look terrible).. You get the idea. She put my IC in a plastic baggie and kept it away, like it was evidence at a crime scene or something. I would never get to see my gorgeous face on that card again. But then, I never saw a gorgeous face on that card to begin with, so I guess it's not that traumatic if you think about it.

And there you have it. As i sit here and write this load of crap, I am so relieved that I would never have to set foot in a jungle (against my will, of course. There are *things* I wanna try in a jungle, none of them involving thick uniforms. Then again...), never have to shave off my head, never have to crawl through the mud in a mock attempt at 'finding the enemy (The enemies primarily reside in government buildings, jungles are obviously the wrong places to look) and never have to call anyone 'Sir'.

Well, maybe not the last one ;)