anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,

A very random entry.

I think I was quite the pretentious little twat back in 2005. Entries like this one are just begging to be ripped apart, and not solely because I was totally making a mountain out of a molehill. I don't know why I ever thought entries like that constituted "good writing"; all I see now are stupid run-on sentences, ignorant and childish grandiose proclamations of "taking the plunge" (whatever the fuck that even means), big words and life-or-death and grand and oh-so-scary-and-perilous imagery being used in an altogether empty and blase fashion. Boring. I'm not interested, thank you very much.

And then there was that overreaction. Sure, it's easy to make light of the emotions that I went through when I'm 3 years older, hopefully wiser, and have the benefit of hindsight; but quite honestly, as with every emotional outburst that accompanies the aftermath of a relationship, or a near-relationship, I don't quite understand why I felt that way. There is a very real, even vast, disconnect between the way I see things now and the way I saw things then. Not even the fact that I'm still technically the same person is enough to bridge that gap. It's quite literally as if those emotions were felt by another person, a complete stranger. I can believe I wrote those words though; they may be pretentious, but at least it was pretentiously well-written. Or well-written-ly pretentious. At the very, very least, nothing about it affront basic English grammatical decency.

But back to my other point. Actually, it's not really true, what I said earlier about not being able to understand why I felt what I felt after my relationships ended.

Then again, on second thought, it's 100% true. I broke up with the first boyfriend, was sad for three days, and stopped caring after that. I understand why I was sad, but not so much why I stopped caring. I broke up with the second boyfriend and treated him like persona non grata when I was the one that ended things. I understand why I ended things, but completely don't understand why I had to be so arrogant and cruel about it. The one that almost became a third one told me he didn't want to be my third and I was all upset and emo and yeah, sure, ego was bruised and all, but does a mere ego-bruising really lead to what I think I called "heartbreak"? Not really. So maybe that entry and those that came before and after it were more the product of a sullied pride - which, yeah, is really very me. But the way I chose to represent it made it sound like I was genuinely heartbroken. Maybe I was; but I'm unable to understand why, or put myself in a position where it's possible for me to feel that way again. Because I just...can't. Don't. Won't again.

The third one...well, suffice it to say...I Just Don't Freaking Get It.

I think I will be quite content being single forever.


I also read the first half of this entry.

I did eventually buy JBJ's Hatchet Man of Singapore from the man himself outside Centrepoint. He signed it for me. I wanted to talk to him - say all those things I wrote in that entry - but I was too tongue-tied. How could I have said anything sensible and coherent in front of such a great man? I couldn't have.

And so I didn't.

And now I wish I had. I always did intend to at least write him a letter to tell him how much I admired and respected him; but as things seem to always turn out, I thought I had a lot of time to do it, subsequently forgot about it, and now he's gone.

It's too late to apologise, too late for regrets.


I won't even bother saying anything more about LHL, PM's letter of condolence. To call it a letter of condolence is to rubbish completely the meaning of the word "condolence". But the saddest part is, I wasn't expecting anything more from the government. At all.


Ooh, found an old meme. Bored, so will do.

6 Things I Want To Do:

1). Publish at least one novel before I die
2). Work in London
3). Make sure that I don't screw up the take-home exam and the Interpol paper
4). Attend JBJ's funeral
5). Go to Taipei in December and eat all the out-of-this-world food that I've badly missed
6). Watch Roger Federer's tennis matches. Preferably live.

6 Things I Can Do:

1). Write
2). Give in to bouts of excessive and extreme narcissism
3). Get what I want. Mostly.
4). Diss myself
5). Diss other people
6). Criticise. I criticise very well.

6 Things I Can't Do (at least at the moment):

1). Apparently, I still can't study
2). I still can't cook and that's not going to change, ever
3). I can't play tennis - YET!
4). I can't go to London :(
5). I can't see Roger Federer on TV!
6). (Wow, my 2005 answer in this position is something I'd never, ever say anymore) Focus on an article for more than 5 minutes without looking at something else

6 Things That Makes (sic) Me Attractive To The Opposite Sex:

1). I have super nice legs
2). I look damn good in dresses
3). Even when I'm at sloppiest, I still look better than the average person.
4). I am relatively proportionate (though I could use some help in the chest department)
5). (My 2005 answers continue to astound me. Was I really so insecure and pathetic?) I'm not some brainless bimbo. Unless the opposite sex goes for that kind of thing, in which case I'm not interested either.
6). I look good on your arm. Make sure you look good on mine too.

Okay in all seriousness now:

Actually, I was serious the first time.

6 Things I Say All The Time:

1). Oh my god
2). Wah lau!
3). Seriously?
4). I love Roger/David/Joaquin/Stereophonics/etc!
6). That's damn gross

6 Celebrity Crushes:

1). Roger Federer
2). David Cook
3). David Anders
4). Have I mentioned Roger Federer?
5). Roger
6). Federer

6 people I'm tagging:

Aiyah whoever wants to do will do lah.


Lastly, I'd like to say:


What an egoistic shit!

Oh yeah, and a writer lives around my way too. A guy in a pub pointed him out to me, and I've seen him hanging out in Family Fun, the space-game parlour, and toting his blue laundry bag to the Whirlomat. I don't think they can pay writers that much, do you?... He stops and stares at me. His face is cramped and incredulous - also knowing, with a smirk of collusion in his bent smile. He gives me the creeps. 'Know me again would you?' I once shouted across the street, and gave him a V-sign and a warning fist. He stood his ground, and stared. This writer's name, they tell me, is Martin Amis. Never heard of him. Do you know his stuff at all?

When I read that first sentence, I had a feeling the writer was going to be him. And I was right. HA! I love this book.

I love his writing actually, even though the style, at least in this book, is so different from both Barnes and McEwan, and Rushdie, I'm sure. The conversational style isn't really my thing, but shit, the man can seriously fucking write. So many amazing choice of words that they made me wonder what kind of superhuman brain he has to think up such things. Even that bit about the "smirk of collusion" and "bent smile" in the above extract are quite amazing. He uses adjectives that are very unusual and unorthodox, and they're so highly effective.

There's also a tennis scene somewhere around page 30-ish and it's so, so, SO fuckingly well written. Maybe it helps that I like tennis and know enough about it to know what he's talking about, but quite apart from that I think, it's the way he describes the game - the movement of the ball, the players' shots, the movement of the players. I'm too lazy to flip to the relevant pages but what I still remember is this: "I lumbered up to the net."

HILARIOUS. Seriously cracked me up. In fact, the whole novel is full of hilarious one-liners and descriptions and self-deprecating remarks from the narrator. I absolutely love it.


Tags: literature, martin amis, singapore

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