F*ck! I got 650 for SAT II: Writing. Civilised words can't even begin to describe the anguish in me now. @#$%%^%$@!#$%! !@%^*^$#$&^$^%##$$^@@#$

Yes, yes, I know grades don't define a person's intelligence or his self-worth, but I can't help feeling stupid - very stupid. I'd studied for the test, and this? Life is never fair, but who am I to complain? Life is never fair to most of us and there more important issues for me to gripe about: famines in Africa, the insurgency in Fallujah, Palestine-Israeli conflict, Taiwan-China dispute, high oil prices and the twin deficits of the US. Aargh!! Who am I kidding? My problem is the biggest problem now – at least to me. So people, bear with me.

I guess I can more or less write off my chances of going to UPENN now, unless a miracle – a really HUGE one bestowed on me by all the higher powers in this world or out of this world - happens.

Ok here goes, I'm hale and hearty! This is Mr. Healthy speaking here, mind you. I'm the healthiest man in the whole wide world! I'm so healthy that if you put me in Somalia, the HDI there would reach First World standards, because my extreme positive state of health would just pull up the overall well-being index there! WAHAHAHAHA

sick..

Crap..I feel terribly under the weather now, and it's all happening so suddenly; I was hale and hearty this afternoon. I hate it when this happens - a sickness that strikes you without warning. I'm all hot inside but my palms and feet are freezing. These contrasting temperatures are making me feel nauseous all over. Aargh f*ck! I shan't type anymore, my head is spinning like crazy.

It’s that time again when I start contemplating my future – university and later, the working world. I was looking forward to going to university for the most part in BMT, as I thought that school, even with the panoply of tests, assignments and projects, would be better than being in serfdom under the tyranny of unreasonable sergeants. I was utterly wrong. As my friends in university can attest to, university isn’t the land of sex, booze and rock and roll as many American films love to portray, but a place of work, work and more work than one can possibly imagine even after undergoing the rigors of the Singapore education system for 12 years. School seems so daunting now.

Perhaps, working life would be better? The empowerment that comes with financial independence (from our parents at least) would certainly be a prospect anyone would relish. But as with every benefit, there is a price to pay. The workload aside, there would be an assortment of problems: backstabbing colleagues, unreasonable bosses (heaven knows how many balls I’ve to suck to make them reasonable), bills and loans. It’s a scary world out there. As much as I relish the challenge to go fight in this dog-eat-dog world, it’s only because it’s a Hobson’s choice, and it’s better to be more positive about it. Given a viable alternative, I’d rather not.

Sigh…I really miss the days of childhood when everything was so much simpler – no politics and no pecuniary worries. The only big worry I had was exams, and at least that is a problem minimally affected by external agents. Alas, I can no longer hide behind the shield of blissful ignorance. Growing up is painful.
Perhaps, this reluctance to embrace the working world is because of my pampered childhood. If I’d grown up in the slums of Calcutta where the weak are dearly disadvantaged, I would be more eager about growing up and removing my fragilities as a child.

Oh well, I still have a little over a year left to serve for NS, and as much as I whine and moan about the shortcomings of the army, it is actually a safe haven from the harshness of the real world. I guess I better enjoy it while it still lasts.

I’ve nothing interesting to report today, but I’m typing this nonetheless – I’m suffering from bloggadiction, which is quite unbelievable considering how vehemently I used to eschew blogs. Somehow or another, there’s just this inexplicable urge in me now to just pen something down or in this case, type – literary diarrhea if that’s the term to describe my current condition. To continue the metaphor, the feeling I get after allowing the deluge of words within me to flow out is akin to purging my human vile – a soothing calmness.

However, this relaxation is costly. Every time I post something in my blog, I end up staying online for thirty minutes even though I’m only supposed to take five, because I get tempted into aimless surfing, which has led to the inevitable escalation of my Internet bill. A point to note: the Internet service in Brunei is frigging expensive - $1.20/hr – and bloody slow, even by dial-up standards. If there’s one thing I miss most about Singapore (family and friends notwithstanding), it’s cable – affordable, FAST and unlimited Internet connection.

I want to go back to Singapore!

Couldn't think of a better heading, and no, this has nothing to do with sex. My heartfelt apologies to those who were thinking of getting their "fixes"; I only wanted to grab attention.

Is it better to have direction in life or to just go with the flow? I’ve always thought the former better, because having a map, no matter how sketchy, is more reassuring when navigating through the perilous paths in life. On the other hand, having no map nor compass would leave one stranded at sea.

Is that to say having direction makes one’s life better? I think possessing that proverbial map is what leads us to the obstacles in life in the first place. This is because a goal, no matter how small, will inevitably have obstacles for us to overcome – there is no free lunch in this world. Every time there is a problem, we’d crack our heads to solve it, and if we don’t, not only is energy wasted, but we get disappointment as well – not a very fair deal. Sure, you’d say that the rewards of success can be gratifying – the sweetness of success being inversely related to the ease of achieving it – like finding buried treasure. But just like finding buried treasure, success is rare, and most of the time all you get is an old and empty chest. For every one success, there have been hundreds of other people who have failed in the same undertaking.

I don’t know why is there a sudden rush of cynicism in me – it’s quite out of character -but when I start pondering about it – especially since I’ve all the time in the world to do so - it gets me thinking about how worthwhile is my ambition. There are times when I think it’s better to lead a carefree life without having to worry about whether I’m on schedule to accomplish my goals, and just live day to day instead of planning for the future. These doubts linger not just because of the fear of failure, but the fear that I’m striving for the wrong goal. It’s really sad if you spend half your life working towards something only to find out at the end that it’s not the thing you really wanted.

I don’t want regret.

6 weeks left to the application deadline – time to get rid of the inertia and get cracking on my essays.

H e A d a c H e

My head is throbbing like mad! It's as if tiny little men are hammering away on my brain inside my skull now.

Mental note: NEVER stay up late the night before to drink if there's work the next day.

I’m suffering from a pimple outbreak! Somebody help me! It’s really strange; back in 4SIR and Lakiun camp when I went outfield more often, and came into contact with more dirt and mud, I was hardly fazed by pimples, but now that I’m stuck in the relatively more sanitized environment of the office, the once-dormant pimples have erupted vigorously - each of them marking a territory on forehead with an angry red lump. Gross!

I wonder if there is a surgical procedure to remove the pores on my face without any side-effects or any other method to make my face pimple-resistant. I’m sick and tired of washing my face twice a day, and yet still have to face those repugnant growths.

Anybody got any bright ideas to stem the invasion of the pimples until the scientists come up with something better?

Did that catch your eye? I’m sure it did – no one can resist the allure of sex. The word alone can arouse more attention than a paragraph with the word "sex" absent. For example, newspaper tabloids, as long as the word sex is in the headlines, people will clamour to read the rest of the news, but if it’s an article about the Middle East conflict, hardly anyone would bother unless they’re either Palestinian or Israeli, or just plain bored. In TV commercials, half-naked hunks with rippling muscles and scantily-clad women with well-developed assets are used to promote products ranging from beer to automobiles. In addition, there are many instances of groups protesting naked in public to bring attention to their cause. On a more personal note, in one of my recent blog entries, when the word "sex" appeared, it was the most talked-about part of my entry – for both male and female. And just a moment ago, my colleague who never displays and interest in what I type was suddenly interested when he saw the heading. The examples are endless.

What is it about sex that stimulates such interest and fervour? Is it because it appeals to our primordial urges – our inner lust – such that whenever we encounter the word "sex", it just triggers an impulse to scrutinize it.

Or maybe, it’s because sex is still considered a taboo subject in both Asian and Western societies and is seldom discussed openly in public discourse. Thus, when the subject is broached or the theme is broadcasted to the people, interest is easily piqued. If the subject had been a non-taboo subject like gardening, few people would as much as raise an eyebrow. This is because gardening is something that can be done openly and can be discussed publicly anytime, whereas sex is not something that can be done in the open – that is assuming most people do not have exhibitionist tendencies – it is an activity that is mostly conducted with discretion.

Whatever the reason, it is undeniable that sex is a powerful tool to attract attention. So, the next time you want to grab people’s attention, just hold a placard that says "SEX".

What is the meaning of life? Since time immemorial, many brave men, philosophers or not, have attempted to unravel this eternal mystery, but alas, no definitive answer can be found.

Most of us would define “having a life” as having ambition, a goal to which we work towards in our short stay on Earth. This need not be something glamorous like being the US president – not that I think it’s an enviable job – it can be simple like seeking happiness or profound like being a monk meditating for 50 years to attain enlightenment. In a nutshell, Man’s notion of life is to have direction; people who are aimless are thus often admonished. But is our life here on Earth really that complicated? Must we have a goal in life that extends beyond mere existence?

Technically, we’re just a walking glob of cells, and cells on their own do not have any ambition in life apart from assuring its existence and replication - which probably explains our primordial instincts to fight for survival and procreate for posterity – so why must we burden ourselves unnecessarily? It’s already hard enough to eat, sleep, have sex, and then repeat the whole cycle continuously throughout our existence. Look at mosses and lichens; they stone on rocks all day. We humans think too much.

When I was young, my parents were parsimonious in their monetary handouts to me – although, I must admit this changed after primary school, but only after tough negotiations – and thus every cent meant the world to me. I would scrimp and save whatever little I got to fill my makeshift money retainer (I was too poor to afford a piggy bank or any other animal-shaped money box for that matter), which was actually a pencil case I had won in a calligraphy contest. I believe I still have it kept in my drawer somewhere – together with the money. During that financially-deficient period, I often dreamed to displace Bill Gates at the top of the Forbes money list. That was my aim in life: to be outrageously rich.

However, time changes people. Previously, when an 80-cent bowl of laksa at the Rosyth canteen was pure ecstasy for me, now, only fine dining at the most luxurious venues would provide the same sensation. Why the extravagance? Has money lost its importance to me? Maybe, or perhaps it’s the winds of time that have changed the sails on my ship of life. It’s no longer the buried treasure that captivates me, but the beautiful deserted island.

The intangibles, like happiness and contentment, had become my primary goals in life, but they were ephemeral - the pragmatist in me would not be denied. Now, money has returned to the central focus in my life, which seems a tad too materialistic. In a way it is, but I realize that it’s only by being outrageously rich can I break free from the clutches of money, be financially independent and pursue my less materialistic dreams. Of course, most people would counter this seemingly naïve notion by saying that the pursuit for material wealth is a never-ending cycle, and that I would never be truly free to pursue my dreams (non-material ones) once I enter the rat race – although I don’t have to, if you were to read “Rich Dad, Poor Dad”, but that’s another story. I guess the detractors’ point does has a ring of truth for people consumed with avarice, but I won’t know if I’m one of them till I become super rich, so I shan’t worry too much about it yet. Nevertheless, I guess it all boils down to knowing how much money is enough for you.

So there, it seems I have a clear goal in sight now, and am on my way to achieve it with my scholarship and all, but I can’t help having this nagging feeling that I’m missing out something in this big scheme of things. Is it love? I really don’t know. I guess I’ll leave that conundrum for another day; all this mental grappling is driving me cuckoo. Sigh, why can’t I be a moss?

Yes, it's shocking but true - skinny and scrawny old me is morphing into blubber boy. I can see all the signs now: my pants are getting tighter; the lines demarcating my six-pack are barely discernible – even when I flex them till I turn blue in the face – and I pant uncontrollably when climbing up a flight of ten steps. Brunei has ruined me! All the months of hard toil to build up my fitness in BMT and 4SIR have come to naught in the wake of my sedentariness and relentless gluttony. Oh, you might say, “Go exercise! Cut down on the snacks!” But it’s easier said than done, it takes A LOT of discipline to work out on your own, especially when the environment is not conducive – I’m incarcerated in my tiny white cell almost 24/7 – so it’s easy to lapse into slothfulness.

Then, I ask myself, is it really that bad to be fat? What’s wrong with a little paunch peeking from under my shirt? After all, it is a mark of prosperity in the eyes of the Chinese. The instant reaction these days is a resounding no – fat is not a sin - which is followed by the rhetoric on how beauty goes beyond the skin. But is it really alright to just let the fat cells accumulate remorselessly (health reasons aside), and is society’s aversion to fatness just merely a result of its preoccupation with beauty? I would think not.

A fat exterior reflects the attitude of the person: laziness. Very often, when a person fails to wear neatly-pressed clothes, we would unhesitatingly chastise him for being sloppy. However, when a person is fat, we don’t tell him the same thing – I’m assuming that people are generally not mean – because fatness is a touchy issue. So why then is sloppiness in personal grooming not considered an off-limits issue? After all, clothes and physique are facets of a person’s appearance. Going by this thread of logic, it follows that fat people should be equally castigated for being sloppy.

One might argue that a person’s physique is not as easy to change as his clothes and that more often than not, fat people are restricted by the genes dished out to them at birth – it’s not their fault. Then, how is it that there are instances of people scoring better in examinations than those with higher IQ? Two words: hard work. These people do not wallow in self-pity, and accept the fact that they can’t do well just because they weren’t endowed with Einstein’s brain; they worked hard than their smarter peers to change their lot in life. In the same way, fat people can change their appearance only if they are willing to make a disciplined effort to.

Having said all that, I concede that not every fat person is lazy. Some do make the effort to slim down, but the effects are just not so visible. I applaud these people for their courage and hope their indomitable won’t waver just because the results are not so forthcoming. However, for the rest of us, especially those who were once skinny (and that includes me), there is no excuse. I exhort all of you to heave yourself away from the desk now and tone those flaccid muscles.

A trimmer and fitter body awaits.

I just re-read my last entry – it was so darn boring! I can’t seem to transform the mundane into the spectacular; there’s this inexplicable oomph lacking in my writing. Aargh! It’s frustrating but I guess I’ll continue trying – correction: I WILL get there. (Positivity!)

There was a little more excitement yesterday: I nearly got into big trouble with my boss, and my 4SIR friends came by today - which will, I hope, make it easier for me to write a more engaging prose this time.

The trouble was not something major per se, but colonel – alright, that was lame. The problem was that my buddy and I had failed to record the news for the past two days, because of certain mitigating circumstances which I shan’t dwell on too much. It seems to be a trivial matter if you look at it from a third party’s perspective, but trivialities inflate when it involves someone of high rank.

One of us had to break the news to our big boss, but whom? I decided to sit in the electric chair this time since my buddy had covered my ass on two major (note: this adjective has nothing to do with the scale of the problem, but the personnel involved) occasions.

My mind was awash with trepidation and dread as I approached his office door. The once innocuous-looking door suddenly seemed like the gates to hell, and I could just imagine the guardian of hell, the three-headed gargantuan dog, breathing heavily on me. I was engulfed with fear to say the least. I took a deep breath, and knocked - three light raps which were barely discernible. Then, I pushed the door open.

What happened next seemed to be a whirl, as I went about explaining the reasons for my mistake. Once done, I stood with my head bowed, waiting for the axe to fall on my neck, and I muttered a little prayer in my head despite my lack of any serious religious affiliation.

My prayer was answered. I received little more than a slight admonishment, and advice on preventing the problem, and was spared the executioner’s axe. I guess, high-ranking officers, instead of ranting and raving at you when a mistake arises, are more likely to provide constructive criticism as compared to sergeants or lower-ranked officers. Nevertheless, I doubt the reception will be as favourable if I were to be recalcitrant.

After my near-death experience, something more pleasant happened: my 4SIR signal platoon mates had come to my camp! It had been a long time since I last saw them, and although I was less than enamoured of some characters in my platoon, I was glad to see them nonetheless. There was a lot catch-up chit chat, as they brought me up to date with the latest misdemeanours of my platoon sergeant who has become increasingly overbearing and intolerable. Although in all fairness, I must say that despite his shortcomings, he was quite nice to me, at least relative to others, in my short time under him. But, I suppose a person’s true colours are only shown when you’re outfield.

That concludes one of the more exciting days in my life here (pathetic right?), and from the look of things, it won’t be repeated today. Oh well, I don’t suppose my heart could take another walk through the gates of hell again anyway.

Time for tea break at the canteen!

It is a cold and rainy night (not that it matters since I'm shielded from the harsh weather elements in the office, but I'm just saying it to create a more miserable setting) - I'm hungry and faced with the unsavoury prospect of missing my dinner. It's only minutes away before the cookhouse closes, but my colleague is still not back to stand in for me, which is probably because he is unwilling to brave the heavy downpour; he had not brought an umbrella with him. Curse the rain, even when it fails to make me miserably wet, it conspires to make me miserably hungry nonetheless.

Actually, I've nothing against the rain. To be honest, I very much adore it. In the absence of air-conditioners, it is probably the best natural coolant around. Moreover, rain - at the appropriate times that is - also means I don't have to go for my compulsory 4km run, an activity which I loathe. Just to clarify, I'm not some fat slob who detests running because of my lack of ability to, but a pretty decent runner who dislikes the monotone nature of running. Besides, water (rain) is the seed of life, for without it, life would be non-existent. Thus, how can one not embrace it?

Sidetracking a little, I managed to make it in time for dinner, because dinner time had been extended by half an hour. It wouldn't had been a great loss if I'd miss dinner though; it was barely palatable to say the least - and mind you, I'm being tactful. Sometimes I really wonder if it's my increased pickiness about food or the reduced standard of cooking, because the food in the cookhouse used to be very appetizing to me in the first three months that I was here, but I'm barely touching the food now.

Back to the subject of rain, I'm not anti-rain, but just at odds with it's timing. For all its benign properties, the rain seems to relish pouring at the wrong time and place. For instance, at a time when my 4km run is not being held - and usually, very mockingly, right after the run is completed. In another scenario, it would rain when I'm just about to watch my favourite TV show or much-awaited football match, but only to be disappointed because the rain, or rather the lightning, interferes with the satellite dish receiving the TV broadcast signals.

Of course, I shouldn't be parochial in my assessment of rain. After all, the woes that it brings to me are trivial, whilst the benefits it brings to the world are massive. Therefore, I am compelled to conclude that rain is good, but it sure would earn more marks from me if it would just come at the right time.

It has been a long time since I last blogged here. As fate would have it, the novelty of blogging didn't even last past my first entry. Besides, I was more interested in crapping with my friends in my class blog rather than write about my life in a personal blog - diaries were never my thing.
However, I've changed my mind.

Recently, I had been preparing for my SAT II: Writing, which required me to be familiar with the nuances of standard grammar (read: American grammar). As a result, I've grown into a stickler for grammatical errors. Every time I watch a pirated DVD with English subtitles, I would inevitably cringe at the consistently gross grammatical mistakes being displayed. It was pure blasphemy! How could they trample over the sanctity of the English language with no remorse? The pirates really need a lesson or two in good grammar - perhaps, I should pass them my Kaplan SAT II exercise book.

Before I digress further, it is this new-found obsession with grammatical perfection that has revitalised my interest in blogging; I needed an outlet to practise writing good English - not just grammatically precise English, but clear and succint prose as well. I had a new mission: it is to raise my standard of writing.

It is not that my English is poor, but I've always felt that I never really did possess the ability to write effective prose - I was incapable of making words dance. Moreover, in the process of preparing for my SAT II: Writing test, I realised that I was severely ignorant of many aspects of English grammar, which I initially thought I'd a pretty good grasp of. This startling realisation made me all the more determined to make things right by re-learning grammar from scratch.

Nevertheless, it is insufficient to just be aware of the various mechanisms of English grammar. I wanted it to become second nature to me, to flow from me seamlessly like a factory production line. The only way to achieve this is to write continuously, and thus my blog is reborn.