my forehand sucks.

Kept away once again, this time out of necessity as frolicking and façade-painting comes into the foreground in the exciting world of Beng Chang’s Neurosis. And so another one is past, with nothing to show for it except the multiple layers of sun burnt skin and the inane need to bury my head in my chest when school reopens soon enough. Not to mention the characteristic immense low as the effort taken to shake off the desire to talk to people who don’t even exist in your once again echo-inducing empty world gets a tad obvious and overwhelming. But of course it’s a self-remedying thing, this. As opposed to once again the strange phenomenon that is that people just can’t stand hearing that I’m single or something hah.

You can see why rednecks’ll rather engage in tennis than badminton. The former calls for none of the sissy finesse that the latter requires, instead banking on the satisfying outlet of brute unbridled force. And of course there’s the sun factor. It just doesn’t feel like proper masculine sport when you perspire and it’s not due to the sun. I mean, I think it falls in the same category as sleeping without the fan on, chess in a poorly ventilated room, reading with my still @$#$#%$ windless fan, and fencing. Of course, the above list is to be severely criticized for being totally unfair to one of the activities. I mean, hey, chess is an Olympic sport! Or is it some other similarly huge motherfucking time and money leeching event. I know it’s a registered sport cos I read about it in one of them Bookworm Digests once.

So we played tennis today. Or, rather, made a valiant effort at doing so. Then again valiance counts for fuck all at the end of the day. The knight can be miles away from saving the damsel in fuckloads of distress when his horse steps on his toe and decides to call it quits, or he can very well be a knot shy of undoing the woman’s bonds when he gets mowed down from behind courtesy of a mixture of bad breath and spittle as emitted by the dragon (I can’t ever go with the fairy tale notion of fire-spouting creatures); what matters is the result otherwise known as ‘failure’ – effort counts for naught at all.

So yes, we had our racquets and balls (they do so resemble parts of the Grinch’s anatomy don’t you think), and appropriately togged out in our shorts, foolish smiles and the permits which we don’t have cos it’s just fucking dumb to go spend even a sliver of effort booking the courts when the percentage of the world’s population playing tennis on a bright sunny holiday weekday morning in school is zero. Ok not really zero. Cos our morning was spent losing balls and hitting purposeful ones to adjacent courts where proper players went at each other just so that we can annoy them and steal their balls when they’re not looking.

If you haven't already noticed I've let this read better in accordance to Leonard's suggestion regarding punctuation. Then again it may count for nothing as well cos perhaps no one reads this anymore. Oh well. As always, for everything with me, for the sake of, then.