I'm usually too lazy to play video clips or audio clips, but this one was just begging to be played. I'm convinced that any guy who claims to be a good catch, and insistently, even desperately, portrays himself as a good catch, is really not a good catch. Chances are, he's self-deluded at best and creepy at worst. This guy on the answering machine sounds totally creepy, and wow, hilarious that he asked the girl to look up "passive aggressive" when he was the one being exactly that.
On a more serious note, and since I don't quite feel like sleeping yet - the reason I stayed single for two years plus, or thereabout, was quite simple: I wasn't interested in anything or anyone. Going out with a few non-starters did nothing for me, and after a while, I became so used to my own company and being my own person, doing things on my own, without needing to revert to someone else, or simply needing someone else, that singlehood stuck like a second, protective skin. It felt great to be free of emotional encumbrances - feeling sad when the guy doesn't call or text, feeling as though your immediate happiness hinges on someone else's action, worrying constantly about whether you're good enough, whether you measure up, whether he'd one day up and leave you. And of course, when he does up and leave you, you're left behind, alone, to pick up the pieces, then try to glue it all back together as if nothing had happened, when the truth is, you've given away so much that just trying to breathe was suffocating enough.
It was unsurprising, then, that I viewed relationships with disdain and disinterest. I wasn't bothered. I couldn't possibly care any less. I genuinely did not give a flying fuck. Simultaneously, I pegged my standards so high that a random decent guy simply wasn't going to cut it. I wanted someone who would make me laugh, someone who spoke good English, someone who was smart, someone who was witty, someone who was good-looking, someone complex, intriguing, someone exciting. And yet, at the same time too, my utter lack of interest got to a point where I simply couldn't be bothered thinking of the guy that I wanted to date. It got to a point where my ideal guy was like the rule of law: I know it exists, I know it's good, but I can't define it; I'd know it when I see it.
In my case, it eventually turned out to be one of "I'd know it when I feel it." Tong was still the clown from JC when we met again in May, first during the dinner with the girls, then again when I went to watch his squash match. He was just my ex-schoolmate whom I laughed at heartily back in JC, to whom I sporadically on MSN (less than 10 times I believe) in the intervening years, who still made me laugh. It was only until I found myself driving home at night from tennis and laughing to myself at the thought of something he said that I started to wonder if I actually liked him.
My utter lack of interest in a relationship, coupled with his utter lack of interest in a relationship, makes our journey thus far quite incredible. At the point I got together with him I still wasn't completely sure what to do with the relationship that I suddenly found myself holding. I remember a phone conversation we had the night we got together, where we basically said that we'd take things slow and not commit our whole selves too quickly, just in case something went wrong.
I think I held quite steadfast to that for maybe two, three weeks. Then the wheels came off, the walls crumbled, and I was ultimately left naked, defenceless, vulnerable, in front of him. First in front of him - at the opposite end of a table in a restaurant (though at that point I didn't say anything); then in his arms - at Orchard Hotel's lobby bar. I think my flawed heart was his before I even realised it.
I remained single for as long as I did for a lot of reasons. But the most important reason I'm no longer single is because I found (re-found) someone special, someone utterly precious to me, someone whom I can love without any inhibitions leftover from rotten past relationships. The wonderful part in all of this is that he's also someone who accepts me for who I am and doesn't try to change me, who's patient enough to put up with my retarded girly emo moments when I start crying for fuck-knows-what reason, and who appreciates every small thing I do for him, even things that I didn't consciously set out to do for him.
Above all else, much as I loved being single, I love Wei Chuen more. I've been serious about two guys my whole life. Out of the two of them, Wei Chuen has told me (repeatedly now) that he loves me.
Sometimes, like right now, I can't comprehend what that means. I can't comprehend why he would, and I can't comprehend the fact that someone in the world loves me in a romantic sense. It's absolutely incredible, and sometimes, like right now, I can't believe it's actually happening to me.
My point, besides that I love my boyfriend, is that singlehood is great. It's absolutely fantastic. I'd recommend it to everyone. And it's precisely because singlehood is so good that one should never give it up frivolously, for some sub-standard piece of shit who eventually turns out to be not worth your time. If you're going to part ways with the amazing goodness that is singlehood, you better make sure the guy is worth it.
Wei Chuen is worth it. He's more than worth it. He means the world to me.
Before I move on, I'd like to say one more thing.
We went to East Coast Park Sunday night. It was a damn good choice: the night was cooling, slightly cold, and the wind was a gentle caress against the skin. We sat on a bench facing the sea, and I'd tilt my head backward to look at the moon, faintly obscured by the misty cloudy skies. I pointed it out to him, and he said, "It's actually a very nice night."
As usual, he was hyperbolic in praising the weather - a rare instance in which he wasn't hyperbolic in cursing it. He lit a cigarette next to me, sucked in and inhaled the smoke. I hated cigarettes, smoking, the smell of cigarette smoke, the taste of cigarettes lingering in the person's mouth. I hated it, and I turned my head to kiss him.
We huddled close to each other, his arms around me, my head resting on his chest. It was a very nice night. It was a pregnant moment in which I was at peace with the world, full of love for him.
Of course, the romance rather ended when we made the clever decision to walk from the Burger King end to the stretch of seafood restaurants. He thought it was walkable as he'd done it before; but that must've been a long time ago because the Wei Chuen I know wouldn't voluntarily walk that kind of distance unless he thought it was much shorter.
The walk to and from was quite tiring, and the toilet we stopped at along the way was damn disgusting. I'll just leave it at that.
It was nice, though, when we climbed up to this huge piece of rock jutting out from the shore and sat facing the sea. I took off my shoes just in case they fell into the water. He smoked another cigarette (apparently it helped him feel less bloated), and...well, the Ice Mint he smoked definitely tasted better than the gross Methol he had a while back (which he threw away. THANKFULLY).
The drive back home was great. All in all, it was a great night.
Right, enough mushy-ness. MOVING ON NOW.
1. Negotiations class was...omfg. I don't even know. I just don't understand how anyone can be enthusiastic about anything that goes on in PLC because everything pisses me off. I think I can't appreciate the process because I know it's not my long-term goal. So, yeah, whatever.
2. THE US OPEN HAS STARTED. Just watched Roger's Round 1 match agaisnt Devin Britton. Well, "watched" - the coverage jumped to the tail-end of other matches after the first set, and after Roger got the break in the second. The Isner/Hanescu second-set tie-break was SO annoying. Hanescu had like TEN FUCKING SET POINTS and couldn't convert a single one, and it got to like 14-13 or some shit when Isner finally won the damn tie-break. Ordinarily I'd find it exciting; but I wanted to watch Roger, and so it was annoying instead.
Roger played like crap though, so the match wasn't worth watching. His opponent turned pro 3 seconds ago and he was just...he actually had a pretty decent serve-volley game, but where the fuck were his groundstrokes? His backhand like didn't exist or something.
I don't remember Roger hitting a winner at all. I don't actually have a good idea as to what went on in the match. I absolutely hate it when I don't get to watch a match in full, as I just have no clue what happened. But anyway, the tennis today was typical of Roger in the first round of a Grand Slam: he does enough to get the win. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. He was passive for the most part, waiting for the opponent to make the error. Of course, when it got to 6-5 Federer in the third set, he started playing more aggressively. He eventually won the match with an amazing forehand cross-court pass - very fitting, considering Britton won a lot of points on serve going to the S&V.
Britton was the runner-up in the US Open juniors championship like last year or something. He should consider working on his groundstrokes because they were really quite mediocre. But it's nice to see a young player serve and volley. I can't volley for nuts, but I love watching tennis that is varied and intelligent. S&V gives me that option, and that's great.
On another note, I changed the furniture in my room. Got rid of the Ikea table that I had since primary school and two random shelves. My room is really fucking puny; before I moved this dressing cabinet to the left of my table, near the bookshelf, I had like, no space to walk. And it felt really annoying and claustrophobic. Thank goodness I have a brain.
Okay, sleep time.