crosstown traffic and a baseball bat.

the things exam stress do to people. i swear i saw this guy staring for full 2 minutes, in the wrong direction, at the traffic during rush hour. realising it in the end, he finally looked the right way and crossed when it was all clear. but of course now he finds himself in the same predicament as he was 2 minutes ago cos he now has to negotiate the traffic in THE OTHER direction. standing on the road divider, he battles the inertia of his turned head in the wrong direction for a full 4 minutes this time (2 minutes for the turn back to the straight configuration, then 2 more to turn in the right direction - diminishing marginal returns to scale). he made it at long last.

and promptly got smashed up by the first car he encountered.

ok maybe not but he did create quite a stir.

now i remember why i don't like going to lecturers' offices to go look for them. the experience is harrowing, to say the very least. retard of the year awards were passed out as i made the foolish error of confronting one in his territory today. fuck, how stupid did i feel asking questions he poo-pooed. ok maybe he didn't. not in my face anyway, but i'm sure he dedicated much of his time performing the overdue act of rolling of eyeballs as soon as i fucked off. and special achievement awards came subsequently when i, finally released from mental rape, a safe 25000 yards away from the horrors of that room, trembling into my coffee 20 minutes later, found his explanations erroneous.

ok perhaps i should have studied more prior to going up to any teacher. but i did. or at least that's a viable mirage. i mean, i've been in school fucking early in all the mornings this week. so i've been mostly sleeping in the library which refuses to empty itself of people. but at least i deserve credit for not sleeping at home. the bringing of slumber to school at least shows a prima facie attempt at correcting my lack of reading ability.

besides, there's air-conditioning in school. which means there's a swinging-in-the-other-direction economical benefit. instead of having the fan (or whatever you'll like to call the contraption that sits in my room with the mechanical efficiency of a baseball bat) aid in my ascent into the superior state of consciousness (i see it as a transcending of consciousness as opposed to a loss of it) at home, i now fully utilise my school fees in what they account for.

underwear for the cold war.

the world is divided in the hands of two parties. the 'i've-bigger-biceps-abs-pecs-balls-than-you' fuck-ups and them 'we've-tiny-balls-so-we'll-settle-for-world-peace' dirty communists. it's can also, however, be seen to be split in a different way: those who will ask 'how do you say "fuck"' when faced with a new language, and those who will ask 'how do you say "i love you"' when faced with the same. in a simpler form this split has generally taken the form of being a 'gender split' though it's a slightly fallacious translation. i was watching tv when this dutch hottie asked this chink how to say 'i love you' in chinese in an ad, is why. if her balls were bigger she would've asked for 'fuck you' i'm sure. or perhaps the camera and political correctness made her a commie. anyway they were on their way to the berlin wall so i guess it makes relevant sense. one doesn't readily confront the cold war without being in some sense a socialist.

saw a film about a communist chilean poet. and in criticism of italian democrats. strange how idealism still featured so prominently as near as 1994.

will awaken earlier on the morrow. those motherfucking kids have really lost it this semester. i mean, i haven't seen a fully housed library, period, much less one at 11 in the fucking morning. people (read: women, cos there's nothing to say about men in this context) are relegated even to them solitary confinement cells that make them look like fishtank whores. elaborate rearranging of the configuration of the sparse pieces of fabric no larger than my handkerchief they wear on the lower halves of their bodies become futile exercises in covering up any substantial bits of said halves, as they have to acquaint their asses with the carpeted floor. or is it a purposive activity with developing a montage showing in full the design ingenuity of their limited-edition victoria secret collection in mind.

fuck me.

the cows just drove the tractor back home to mexico taking along the patriotic piglet who died for the liberty of the doves with the collapse of the peacock regime.

skirt-chasing and trouser-trout-playing.

the classic alpha-male standoff. oh you know what it is and how it looks like. so i was at the library counter patiently waiting my turn behind some ladies who got there first. well actually they didn't get there first but alpha males are traditionally well-behaved-on-first-encounters-motherfuckers. you know how they're sweet and polite and all gentleman the first few times they meet anything even remotely female; any chance at getting into skirts! though some draw the line at courtney love. and scots.

anyway so i was there wishfully thinking skirt when trousers come bounding up from behind me and made straight for the counter probably with neither skirt nor pants in mind, but the fact that he REALLY wanted to return his tape. big fucking deal. so did i. and acting like it's really urgent, as if his gramma had gone out that morning on hot pursuit after some indian communists who've stolen her embroidery for shipping to russia and had came face-to-face with a three-tonne truck and escaped unscathed and had then returned home to read the papers and had gotten a paper cut and sent to the hospital; doesn't help. how is he to know that i don't have a grampa, after having ran errands for the a drug ring by trafficking 3kg of cocaine from mat-land without a hitch and blown up a local factory without anyone noticing and driven his van after kids after school only to have them leap out of the way and had gone home only to have had his wallet stolen; waiting in the police station for me?

anyhow so he was at the counter. i was faced with 3 alternatives. 1) stare the bugger into submission. 2) beat him into a senseless pulp. 3) apply social tolerance. and what does one do in the face of choices? he takes all 3. to put it in analogical form, to have your cake, eat it, and give it to a woman whose skirt you wanna get under. i stared at him, waited for 3 nanoseconds, then pulled him screaming into the loo, and applied my elbows and knees liberally to various parts of his anatomy such as the sternum, ribs, throat and of course the all-important groin.

and whilst all this was running through my head i was reminded of a talk i had with a lecturer some time back. he asked me what i would do if someone jumped a queue i was in. i said i would not do a thing, much like social tolerance. cos if he was doing it unknowingly then it won't be a malicious act and so will be of no consequence as pertaining to ethics on his end; and if he did it knowingly then he'll just be revelling in his fucked-up-ness and doing anything about it on my end probably won't help. in any case, i applied my master argument in the end - there is no such thing as morality and moral codes of any kind. all this is but a human construct with no more ontological import than a 5-legged unicorn with a penchant for masturbation lying languidly under my bed materializing whenever i leave my room.

i stared at him.

so the neighbours can dance in the gestapo disco lights.

the motherfuckers they allow onto campus. they should set up some roadblocks giving the school a mile-wide-radius protection and bring back the good ol' methods of exclusion not unlike those employed by the gestapo. they should set up electric fences. but that'll just mean an utilities explosion cos the fools will be hurling themselves at them over and over again, amid mutterings of 'em-cee-squared-pie-ar-squared-charlie-come-ere'n-poke-my-bowels' (the last bit is due to poor diction of bbc presenters reporting on the royal wedding), with time allowed in between leaps for unconsciousness. and i mean registered students. fucking thick-headed morons probably can't find the ends of a stick even if you shoved one up their faces. an end, i mean.

it was a sunny and idyllic tuesday afternoon. flowers were growing well, the garderners were enjoying a bit of time off, pupils were going to class. all this also means escaped drones disguised as the student body, determined to see through the 'stop and smell the flowers' saying were shoving their noses into freshly-manured pots whilst them pot-minders were having a bit of a laugh on the side. it is also with a sinking heart that i find myself cornered in a drone chamber armed with nothing but a full bladder against some of the motherfuckers from the first paragraph. the lecturer, who was succumbing even with superior control of the sphincter, had sat us through a couple of uninspiring speeches. perhaps with 'just one more' in mind, she fatally introduces the next group of presenters to say their piece.

someone should've seen the "1/63 slides" warning. someone should've noted the distinct lack of intellect in their eyes. someone should've paid heed to the tell-tale tongue-hanging-limply-from-the-corner-of-the-mouth, or at least, the drool-dripping-from-the-other-corner; signs. yet no one seemed to have. not with their own tongues sticking out of course. and so this bugger proceeds to speed-read off every single word on his slides. maybe the lecturer made the error of telling them to hurry up, but the result was lines like 'physicalconundrumarisingfrommediatedsourcesgiveexampleshere'. to top it off, his compatriot standing by, probably the example-giver, was shushed into silence by him cos of his need to adhere to the divine truth flashed out in front of him in the form of the literal words on the slides.

i clapped at the end of the presentation.

muhammad "i'm hard" bruce lee.

the things that happen on public transport. makes you wonder why they need tv mobile in the first place. so there was this man sleeping on the bus. big fucking deal, you might say. well but this here man is tired. i mean, the motherfucker is TIRED. he takes seat and throws his bag across 2 other seats. now that can either be construed as an act of sheer inconfuckingsideration or an indication of his need for space. a lady walks up, belligerent, mutters something to another passenger, but sits down on the other side of him; the un-bagged side. he starts dozing off as the journey kicks off. now all would've been a peaceful spectacle but for the fact that he's underestimated the jolt backwards by having placed his bag in front. with his comatose state affording only pittance in the way of defiance towards the laws of physics, his head finds solace in the woman's bosom.

this has the effect of light dealing belligerence a heavy blow to send it reeling. the latter's manager, complaint, is forced to throw in the towel and both in the green corner flee the scene in tears, leaving discomfort and embarrassment standing proud in the middle of the ring. the woman departs for another seat, but brings fatigue with it, dragging it along all the way to the floor. literally. the man finds himself, surprisingly conscious, and sprawled on all fours, facing layer upon layer of dust. perturbed, he proceeds to gather up his coins that'd fallen out of his breast pocket, and resumes his wait perhaps not knowing what had just transpired. cos he starts dozing off again as soon as he resumes his seat. this time, he gives full consideration for the afore-mentioned jolt by slanting his head forwards, but commits the error of OVERestimation. thus the cabin watches with bated breath as his head dips ever lower towards his bag. and with consternation as a sliver of drool escapes his loose jaws to fall just short of the bag and onto the empty seat between him and said bag.

he awakens once again perhaps due to gravity acting against his neck joint. and discovers the emittance of mouth juice perhaps, cos he proceeds to surreptitiously attempt to cover it up, if not wipe it off, by drawing his bag to his side. the cabin is now treated to an exercise in valiance and willpower as he combats slumber with the admirable but well-known-to-be-completely-useless activity of - leg-shaking.

and so the ball passes to and fro over the net. reminds me of another occurrence some time back, when there was this guy who would not awaken however much i jabbed and spoke to him. then again perhaps that guy was dead.

two-headed boy with the communist's daughter.

it's strange how misconstructed i can be in other people's eyes. if folks at the 'looking fuck all like what you actually are' club are ever looking for a poster boy then i'll be right there at the head of the queue just after dog-boy and dracula with a sudden case of hematophobia and locked in a virtual tie with michael jackson, but i'll have advantage over the latter cos his hair at least hasn't changed. i mean, i'm posited as a happy, confident, smart, small little boy. ok perhaps i still am a small little boy, but happy? if i'm happy then the rest of the world needs fucking sedation. confuckingfident (a tribute to the superior 'confuckingspicuous' as uttered by brick-top in snatch. which wins hands down cos of the genius in '-spicuous' following '-ing')? i won't even start talking about smart.

i keep sounding like i know what i'm talking about. i don't. if the gibberish generator churned out something it'll sound like the sort of thing i'll say. we must proactively engage in subjective paradigmatic remedial revisions keeping in mind the universally objective bubble postulated in a paradoxical theorem. ok part of that sounded like it came straight out of dilbert and that's shameless plagiarization of style on my part but you do get the picture. and of course bearing in mind the metaphysical conundrum cumulating in metameric transitions of the soul that knocks hard on homer simpson's door in the middle of the night whilst we go visit the queen in myanmar. people still actually give a shit about the queen!

all these people drinking lover's spit. and fingering lover's chest, mouth, hands, crotch, whatever, in the bus. and i don't know how come they stare fixedly at me while they're at it. makes for a pretty disconcerting experience i must say. i can only take so much love. hahaha. so what do i do. i look down and drum my fingers to the beat of jimi hendrix. a suave and cool way out of that predicament i must say. hendrix solves all problems. but perhaps that head nodding and the bass drum simulation was just a tad over the top. and maybe i should've gone easy on the 'ka-ching!'s in tandem to the crash. but hey i think i do a pretty good impression of it with my human voice. the sabian 14" dark crash. perhaps that's what astounded said couple into immobility and the lady in the adjacent seat to fidget. sabian has that sort of effect i must say. the ping just blows you away. but then of course zildjian is still the king.

mary and her little lamb.

how nice! now i'm losing sleep! as if losing my appetite isn't enough! and i get to enjoy the full benefits of caffeine! now i have more hours in the day to do more things! and i can keep going about the world at large as if exclamation marks are appropriate! and my friend wants to be the first black pope! or was there already one i'm not so well-versed in pope history.

mary was a lonely child. she likes red apple skin. mary has no friends. she is happy. she lives in a house on top of the hill overlooking the town. when mary has got enough of hiding from monsters in her shoe cabinet and looking for leprechauns in her wardrobe she will walk down and pretend to be invisible. the boys are noisy. they like playing with matches and old leather balls. they also like booger-eating and mange-scratching. mary goes among the boys and the boys don't notice her because she is invisible. mary goes to mr. thomson the grocer but he can't see her because she is invisible. mary walks over to ben the german shepard but he runs off because she is invisible. mary is happy again. mary is so happy. she eats her red apple skin. she eats the booger. she eats the mange. little miss muffet sat on a tuffet eating her bowl of turds.

i used to write broken up stories like this. was just reminded of that fact. but they were more disturbing back then. if possible. or perhaps you just don't get what this one says. maybe it means something. maybe it doesn't. maybe mary's an acronym for My Ass was Ravaged Yesterday.

people learn languages from other cultures not cos of acceptance or even tolerance of said culture, i think. they do that just so that they can look down on these people in their own terms, and perhaps learn a few choice swear words just so that they can finally insult these people and have them understand what it is they're saying and to what reference they're saying what they're saying. yelping after someone who thinks you're just saying an elaborate 'good morning' to them is just not as gratifying as getting them to understand the exact anatomical part and the particular pedigree of whatever species of whatever gender it is from which they were begotten.

clouds in my coffee.

damnation is the sentiment of the day. just when guilt-ridden thoughts of the soul are replaced by concrete corrective action the body takes yet another hit and seems out for the count. perhaps the readings for the dog is true for this year of the whatever after all. and the appetite. the wracked temple suffers all the more as a result of the lack of desire for nourishment of any kind. something is obviously wrong when every swallow is followed by a private celebration. and when i try to inflict mortal wounds upon myself while attempting to pat myself on the back with every cleared plate. and it will not budge. a trade off. a vicious cycle. when i'm sick i don't drink coffee. when i don't drink coffee my stomach suffers not. when my stomach suffers not i get well. when i get well i drink coffee. when i drink coffee i lose appetite. when i lose appetite i get sick. the cycle has to be broken! everything points to one obvious weak link in the cycle. there is only one thing left to do.

i should get used to being sick.

everyone is suddenly talking to everyone else. mounting anxiety perhaps. or increasing levels of loneliness. or something. if only she'll talk to me it'll solve all the anxiety on my end. and the cows will drive the tractor back home to mexico taking along the patriotic piglet who died for the liberty of the doves with the collapse of the peacock regime. actually the increased volume of social activity only serves to raise anxiety levels. fuck me can't i see beyond my worries that it's a mirage. some people are genuinely nice. i think. and perhaps one day i'll meet some.

lots of hume cropping up in classes of every kind. ok perhaps just one class. but the memories. i believe i've solved all the problems in the world of metaphysical dispute by pronouncing myself irrational. amazing just how it all becomes clear when you do that. stands to reason as well, if you think it through, logically, hard enough.

chronicles of chronic despair.

somedays you don't feel like getting up the entire day. somedays you don't feel like switching off the hi-fi and getting into the shower. somedays you wish your cup of tea lasted forever and your favourite track playing in the background was stuck on repeat. somedays you loathe getting out and facing the rest of the world, including other human beings, some of whom may even act like they know you. somedays you don't like barking orders at others. somedays you are non-confrontational, to say the least. somedays you just wish the whole world would shut up and you had just a nanosecond of peace and quiet to yourself. somedays you just wish to nap in eternity. somedays you wish the rain would get it right and actually come when you're staying in and go when you're resolved to step out.

somedays you wish you didn't procrastinate so much and start your regime anew after a 2-week hiatus. somedays you wish you had something even remotely resembling a social life. somedays you don't like watching the televison at all but what the fuck else is there to do?! somedays, staring at your extended contact list on IM, you wish someone would actually say something to you so that you can have some social contact with another person you actually like, seeing as you have nothing notable you want to say in the first place cos you're so goddamned fucked up in the head.

somedays you wish you had the fucking balls to put your foot down and promise you'll speak to her and not just mope around for days on end cos you don't and have been living with that lack for close to 2 years, and cos these days are counting down to THE day when it'll almost be certain you won't have to live with that struggle no more cos she's going away.

somedays you wish you're not so miserable.

agaetis byrjun. again. or perhaps the end has no end.

another one. the last one fucked up. perhaps i was too eager a pioneer. perhaps friendster hates me. perhaps all that shit i've been hearing about determinism in class this semester is true after all. perhaps the defence minister of ethiopia wears pink underpants. why the fuck does all this matter. just like what shakespeare said about poor player on a stage and all that. we are candles with piss-poor excuses for flames looking ridiculous in the path of helen or whatever-name-they-always-give-hurricanes. or to that effect anyway.

dhany and harold look so proper. maybe it's against social norms to wear t-shirts at my age. perhaps i should start looking my age and tog myself out in shirts. perhaps i should act my age by engaging in wholesome, constructive activities. perhaps i should feel my age by losing my virginity.

maybe i should start writing again as well. just when i've stopped. but in another context of course. the week-long affair that just passed was just an exercise in desperation cumulating in nothing but despair and the increasing belief in my warped ideas being not-understandable for the fact that they're incoherent. and the idea creeping up on me that i just can't write well enough to convey my thoughts into words. perhaps i should go delve into familiar territory again. perhaps i should go insult some motherfucker in a thousand words. but inertia weighs heavily upon me.

someone put shit in my pants.