I paid special attention to my bunch of keys today; apart from the house, gate and letterbox key, there is this one other key that i have no idea what it's for. It has baffled me for the whole day. My best guess is that it leads to a secret wardrobe that enters a parallel world, or opens a letterbox with letters from a lover from the future, or a treasure chest hidden beneath one of the loose floorboards in my attic. Which may subsequently contain either ancient spanish treasure, or a board game where animals magically appear with each clue, or a gold ring I should fling into a flaming mountain, or a book of secrets, or a guitar Pick of Destiny, or an invitation to a wizarding school and a 12 1/2 inch wand, or coded numbers, or yet another key. To another secret location.

First I shall find my attic with the loose floorboards

I decided change is good. In the sense that any conscious change made by a person would be automatically confined within normal human instinct to 'change for the better', as they say. And hence when a person decides to change a facet of himself, or his life - even if it's to be a goth rocker or soul-less gym rat or intellectual snob - his decision is driven by the belief that it will fulfil some part of his life; or make him happier, so to speak. The want to change in itself is a positive sort of fuel in a person: in a sense change is always good then, in general. weird.

maybe change is good, then.

my mum received the terr0rist search pic in her handphone and my dad complains: "eh, why i don't have". and he says something to the effect of:

dad: eh, s1ngtel and starhub should send people free smses on National Day saying "Happy National Day!"
me and my mum: er but this terr0rist thing important mah
dad: National Day also important what

such is the priority list in the great scheme of things for my dad hahaha

The Daily Prophet

Sirius Black is on the loose. all Hippogriffs are being watched. Call the authorities if you spot him.

i'm starting to be terrified of weekends. the weekends that i expect so much of. the weekends where i'm supposed to regain some sanity and normalcy and semblance of life. and then it fails me.

i need to be with people who will talk to me, laugh with me; people as a safety net. in case i fall into the jaws of helplessness. the comfort and danger of the sounds in my head. and i realize the truth, that there're no such people around. you're more alone than you think you are

everytime i'm at the library i'm tempted to go up to the counter and tell them i want to volunteer as a librarian. dewey decimal system and all that. and i don't know what makes me want to- probably the way it gets me whenever i see Isaac Asimov books under I, or Saul Bellow under S, or TotalFilm magazines under F. Or maybe, i just like the library. it's a place that people go to without any obligation or real necessity; rather, just a simple want. and it's there where people - old or young, alone or with friends, school sweater or faded jeans, laptop or sketchpad - can just shut out the world and be. even the people who are there just to fall asleep on the couches with a book-in-hand-disguise have this weird right to be there. it's the whole idea of pullovers and too-cold-air-conditioning and books and interrupted silence and duskfall through the glass walls. but then i remember i owe the library quite some money and i think twice

it's the same way i think the best thing that happens to the nearby entertainment centre (or a mall that exhibits it's lack of entertainment) is the second hand book stall that lays out its tables, spreads out its books, and brings cheap reading to the masses. it's almost the right thing to do. especially when you manage to get good books that are not mystery novels or science fiction at 3 -for-10bucks. and all sorts of people are suddenly gathered, browsing; school-kids, bored dads, people looking for chinese stuff, mums buying children books, women buying 4 chick-lit books at a go, geeks buying how-to books, and people reading recipe books that are at least 10 years old. i think it's fascinating, yet mundane at the same time

i think i can always tell when i'm feeling weird from my bath proceedings; yesterday i forgot to bring my towel in, absently-mindedly pressed for shampoo twice, and body soap thrice. thrice! that's a new record in the field of Bathroom Psycho-analysis.

i hate reading books with the movie-version covers. For eg. about a boy. i'm reading NickHornby's About a Boy because its by hornby and cos i probably might like it and cos it may be good Hence the movie based on it. i'm not reading about a boy (starring hugh grant) , movie tie-in. exactly. i do not read movie tie-ins! it's not like i'm reading x-3, or stealth (the movie-tie-in books). this gives me a huge dilemma when it comes to atonement. i want to read it before i watch it but i can't be seen reading a keiraknightlymoviecover version of the book. (and i want to watch it not cos there's keira in it.) and i want to read it not because i'm jumping on the Best Picture Nominee bandwagon but because it's a good book by IanMcEwan. help. life is full of unsolvable issues.

in any case:

Person: what's about a boy about?..
me: ..a boy.

bad joke repeated many times to many Persons. although they usually miss the point and think it's a homosexual paedophilic novel, not "unlike" the previous book i was reading. which i described as a lesbian book so i guess, really, i asked for it. But really, i dont think there's a need to defend the dignity of say, Winterson, to them.

muahaha. hows that for an uncaring face. take that! i will rule the world! which reminds me i should get down to watching FightClub

ok looking back this is such an evil rant that i wrote on a whim. although i just told a friend today that whims are never really that forgivable because they probably spring from the tempted subconscious, hence there is intent anyway. maybe i should delete this post.

Nah

everyone likes to have answers: why this happens, what we should do, etc. and even answers as to why people are the way they are. i realize the hardest questions are those about yourself. because i can't tell the truth if i don't know it in the first place

that day i woke up in camp at night, (while doing orderly duty) and i swear i heard the rats having a squeaking conversation. which stopped once i rubbed the sleep from my eyes

Mollie: all right put your garbage here
Alfie: It's a potluck? how come no-one told me? I didn't bring anything
Roy: i told you last night. why don't we get cheese anymore
Mollie: nobody brings cheese to camp, roy
Alfie: Rats, someone's awake
Mollie: (squeak sqeak)
Roy: (squeak)

i kinda believe in horoscopes sometimes; today's said i would spend my time dreaming of bigger things. and i really was lying in bed doing that for an hour. or wait, did i create my own horoscope in my mind? its a self fulfiling prophecy.

anyway there are apparently so many things i wanna do. this this this this and that. wrote it down on a post-it with self-belief, though i know it'll probably end up like the hundreds that came before it: lost, and forgotten. story of my life i guess- dreams on post-its, torn off to make way for the next sheet.

at the very least this random entry will serve to remind me (during one of those self-indulgent nostalgic trips down the archives of this blog, probably) of the things i said i'll do, and if a search for this most recent Post-It ends up in failure, may it spark another in return

omg the syntax and bad phrasing ok forget it-

this is weird, and i dont like to declare infatuations easily, but, i think i'm in love with the girl in the macdonalds ad. hahahaha. and i think its cos her eyes tell a story. i know: i've known eyes that have told me stories; fairytales built on clouds. (till it rained) I tell everyone about people whose eyes tell stories, and they laugh it off most of the time