the news have it right: man do not wash their hands with soap after holding their squirt guns or cleaning their anatomical trash. this is from casual observation of the men's washroom in MINDEF HQ building basement one #B1-XX. (i'd hate to be breaking the oath i've sworn to undertake in part of the Official Secrets Act of Singapore, Section 25.) Out of every 10 person in the loo that completes their business, 5 would rinse both hands under the tap, then flick of any resuidual droplets and proceed back to their office. 4 would use one hand to depress the tap's button, and washing the very same hand that had earlier depressed the tap's button. the other hand, (i would optimistically calculate, to have not touched any intimate body organs.) would be left high and dry. 1, however, would refrain from making any contact with liquid oxidised hydrogen compounds. perhaps, a medical condition, like an allergy for instance, would justify this strange behaviour. And it would on pure coincidental grounds that all subjects observed in this reconnaisance have on thing in common: they are all officers, uniformed, or un-uniformed.

be dirty. Be a M-A-N! Dirrrty dirrrrty man.

i never knew i could learn something like this on Oprah today. (yes i watch it, out of boredom, really.)

do you know, that humans are the only species whereby the male has no bones in his penis? whoever came up with 'boner' must have done it with a horse or something.

perhaps now i may understand bestiality.

think you know what the after and the ever more means?

i had thought that my grandmother, when she was alive, did not love my grandfather very much. of course, she didn't really show it, she just showed it in ways like being intensely jealous when my grandfather was around other women. (he had movie star looks when he was young, serious!) but well this same intense jealousy is how people show their love. in fact, it is probably the ONLY way people would show it, if they love someone. being nice, doing sweet stuff, only meant that that person, likes you. but never, ever, think that that person, is in love with you.

days before my grandmother died, she said to my grandfather, "i know, i've got you. but i knew, i never, had your heart." but i know why. my grandfather never got the person he wanted; he had to like someone he was forced to be with.

this is what the ever after and forever more is.

if you know someone is jealous of you, somehow, even though you did the most innocuous thing (to you, that is) like going out with friends. things are probably not as simple as it seems.

if you spend the all your life's energies in devotion to moments with someone, but all you end up with are folded corners in silence and the feeling that you're like toilet paper down the john, then, probably, no, surely, you gotta move on.

you hear that? its the sound of your hearts' restlessness trembling on shots of vicodin and cigarettes. or vodka and somnolence. i don't know what soporific stupor you want to get yourself into in order to numb yourself of your enervated soul, but i thought, you might want to know this.

do you think that the eternity, exists? who wants to live till they're old? who wants to be with someone till they are sick? you've got cash? check. you've got looks? check. you've got panache? you've got game.

but thats all it is. a game of you, a game of him, her, or anyone. a game of us to play with, spit out after it has gone stale.

so don't be too sad if things don't work out. things never last forever. its ok to change, its ok to move on. its just a new skin to be peeled off, moult and dry off.

the air a spritz of freshness,
morning flowers over flow with dew.
bunched in the porcelain vase they lay
a warmth, of spice, and cinder, just for you.
as tinder they are, for enraptured hearts
innocence, in scented waters and crisp confines.

but now heat has burned itself out.
the flowers would revisit later; present ones decay
in waters livid with noxious perfume.
they fan out, flaccid, in the heat enraptured
perhaps, fresher flowers would reside in the
procelain vase, again.

i am appalled by my recent entries. the standard of my language expressions has diminished terribly. it feels as if i'm reading my secondary school stuff again. if this go on i will have to stop blogging already, i'm not doing anything to help me in this area. its simply revoltingly banausiac, like watching a second puberty. brrr.

i've said before that i will not let myself live past 60. i'm truly reconsidering that. i think, maybe, maybe 21.

maybe memories.

i do wonder why i don't take great pleasure in photographs. the still frames of lucid moments frozen in a glacial standstill. life, in a lifeless presentation. i walk. the blinds of potassium iodide flashes explodes in a frenetical excitement. it was a firefight exchange of moments for mnemonic sanctity.

sang froid

precious seconds fossilised in gloss prints. many have asked why the mere blankness of it all. is it numbness, or inability to fathom feelings for the moment? i cannot answer. i only know why i am not enthusiastic about it.

si vous plait

when i hold scraps of memories, burned into the mind, that is where i feel alive. fossils of moments may conjure deadness, but the scraps of memories, even if they were off someone's table; those are the ones that need the most holding on to. they are the most precious. still frames do not move. they only bring to you the glacial moments that you knew that you breathed. but that is all.

maybe memories. everything, can be changed.

i really can't be bothered anymore. its so banal that i think my cerebral cortex had oozed out my ears already. life's just a conundrum.

the next time someone invites me with a ticket to hell, i'd ask,

"are we taking business or economy?"

anywhere's better. i want to live out this skin.

yes, maybe i look funny, or uncool to you 'cos i'm not tattooed or pierced. or i'm nerdy or dorky or anything you hate 'cos i'm a spec-ie. hate me even when i don't know you. thats fine.

but wait for it, douchebags. i'll make you all for work for me.

roses are red
violets are blue
vengence is sweet
like oranges and gasoline.