The Female of Our Species

Just a couple of hours ago, I was attending a practical lesson for motorcycle at a driving centre. It was 12.45pm when I got there and the sun was scorching hot. When I wore my helmet and rode around the circuit a few times, it felt like my whole head was being mircowaved. For a moment there, I thought it would have been rather amusing to try and fry an egg on the top of the oil tank of my bike, but of course I didn't. I had to focus on more important things like passing the damn lesson.

The intial part of the lesson was rather smooth. There weren't many cars going around in the circuit, but when I enter the 45th minute of the lesson, lo and behold! The cars started to pop up from nowhere. There were cars in front, cars at the back and cars on my sides. It's not that I have anything against people who drive cars, but with the heat coming in waves, I got easily irritated when I had to wait for a pretty long period for car to make a turn. I was so tired of holding the clutch while waiting for a car to turn that I released it unknowingly a couple of times, causing my bike to either stall or jerk. This occurred over and over again at every single turning in the circuit. I was so pissed at one point I decided to speed down the road, overtake the car in front (something I'm not supposed to do yet at this stage...) and make the turn before it does. Well, I got screwed for that, but I noticed something - the driver was a lady. Then I asked myself, could it be true when they say that all ladies are bad drivers? I wasn't sure, so I decided to find out for myself. Each time a car takes a gazillion years to turn, it's a lady. Each time a car hogs the whole lane, it's a lady.

I guess they're right when they say that.

I got home later and while I was bathing, I realized that there are many things that guys don't like about girls. Here are some to name a few:

1. They make use of their mensus as an excuse for their unjustified tantrums.
2. Eating out is a problem. Too much oil? No. Too hot? No. Arrgh!!!
3. We have to make the decisions most of the time. If it turns out to be a bad one, it's our fault. If it's a good one, it's hard to get a 'Thank You'.
4. They're almost always late.
5. The list goes on...

But that being said, I don't hate women. I still want to marry one, live with one, love one, die for one. Every straight guy does right?

Well, I mean... They may have their shortcomings. So do we. They make mistakes. So do we. They piss us off in unimaginable ways. We piss them off too - like when we forget important dates or like when we forget we're not supposed to gawk at another girl. Come to think of it, men and women are so different they're actually similiar.

Oxymoronic? You might want to think about it again. Another way I could say it is that men and women are equal. Yes, there're things men can do better than women, but there're also things women can do better than men! In fact, there're times when women do better than men in an area where men are expected to fare better.

So next time, if you're a guy and you see a lady, don't look at her as someone of low calibre; she's very much as capable as you are, just in different areas. Beyond the physical traits of her body, she just like you. We all stand on levelled ground.

There's no room for MCPs in this world. Every straight guy needs a woman as much as every straight woman needs a guy. We compliment one another in different ways.

Sometimes...

Sometimes it's not so much about getting another chance from God, but giving it to Him instead.

Steak

He gets his steak and asks as matter of factly, "Well done?"

"Yes sir," nods the waiter who carries on to add the toppings on his baked potato after he cuts it open with his fork and knife.

The man looks at his dish for a moment or two before sinking the fork and knife into the piece of meat

Squish, squish... He sawed away at his steak, seperating them in little cubes small enough to fit into his mouth. When the whole piece was cut up, he proceeded to take away the fatty parts with a slight tinge of disgust on his face.

He worked away at his steak for about 10 minutes before putting down his knife and pausing to admire his work.

Squish... The fork sank into a small cube of the steak. He casually lifted it into his mouth and chewed it. While he chewed it, he stared blankly to the left.

Chomp chomp chomp... The muscles on his cheeks tensed and relaxed as his mouth did the work like as if it had a mind of it's own. He only snapped out of his "suspended animation" mode when there was nothing left to chew.

Gulp... He swallows it down and continues to choose another piece to eat. Picking one up, he puts it into his mouth and chewed again but spat it out after a few bites. Fatty portions, it seemed. He face contorted in disgust as he searched for a better piece. Found one, put it into his mouth, stared blankly to his left again and swallowed it.

I wonder what went through his mind as he stared into blank space. Was he thinking of the fight he had with his wife earlier on? Possible. Was he worrying about his rent? Could be. Was he thinking about which EPL match to bet on? Maybe. Was he considering where he is going to sleep tonight? Might be. Or was he simply lonely? I wouldn't know for sure, but most probably. The man sat there for about an hour straight - alone. For the few times he did not look to his left, he allowed his eyes to wander around. Sometimes he looked longingly at the table across where a happy family sat eating and talking. Sometimes his eyes searched frantically around the eatery as if he was looking out for a familiar face to call out to.

But I wouldn't know, would I?

What I do know is this: no man can be an island. A lonely person is as good as a person with one foot in the grave. Moments of solitude can no doubt be good at times, but not all the time. I realised that we can never survive on our own in this world no matter how independent we are. Somehow or another, we would still have to depend on someone or something. We're inter-dependent on one another. No man is an island.

The man paid his bill with a $50 dollar note, got up, put a cigarette into his mouth and walked away. As I saw him from his rear, I recounted the horrible times I had to eat alone. I'd either skip that entire meal or call somebody out to accompany me. It's never a pleasant feeling to have to eat alone, much less be alone in the world. I pondered also about the countless people I've seen sleeping alone on the streets at my district. You'd never get a wave of euphoria sleeping alone, much less being alone in the world.

I realised how fortunate I am to have a family who cares enough to cook my food, friends who bother to come out to accompany me, mentors who're generous enough to lend a listening ear. They might not know it consciously, but I think they understand one thing I do: Nobody deserves to be alone.

Two is better than one for when one falls, the other is there to pick him up and set him right. When both fall, well, at least they fall together and not alone.

"If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever
As high as souls can fly
The clouds roll by
For you and I" - If We Hold On Together by Diana Ross

Troy

Troy was a fairly good looking young lad. He didn't have chiseled features of any kind, nor did he have an impressive body frame. In fact, he was a little inclined towards the scrawny side, but he looked pleasant enough to be considered slightly above average.

Borned and raised into a wealthy, close-knitted family, he grew up in a environment full of warmth and love. As the only child, he was given undivided attention by both of his parents; they gave him anything he asked for.

When Troy transited into his adolescent years, he became increasingly aware of his "slightly above average" physical assets and features. His awareness began as passing thoughts that came and go, but as he started to dwell in them, they escalated into becoming a "real problem" for him. He began to feel hideous on the outside and lousy on the inside. And as such, his self esteem took a nosedive to a point he decided to go for an extensive plastic surgery.

Troy followed through with the surgery after discussing it with his parents, who were initially quite apprehensive, but nevertheless granted him what he wanted.

He went through rhinoplasty, sillicon chest implants, face lifts etc. He even got the surgeon to surgically break some bones to make him a couple of centimetres taller. The surgery was intensive and gruelling. It took him almost 2 whole years to complete it and allow the wounds to heal. Within that 2 years, Troy spent most of his time in a private hospital. He was bandaged up and drifted in and out of consciousness because of the amount of painkillers they pumped into him to ease the excruciating pain. He felt like giving up the whole idea a couple of times, but looking like a totally different person spurred him to perservere. He wanted to be someone new. He hated his old self.

When the time finally came for Troy to emerge from his bandages, he was pleased with what he saw in the mirrors. Finally, he thought, I am no longer that hideous monster, but someone new now.

But the happiness was short-lived.

It was barely 6 months after the operations that Troy began to be dissatisfied with his looks again. He realised that there were still others who look better than him. It wasn't long that he felt the need to be someone new once more; he was sick and tired of looking at the same old face in the mirror everyday knowing that there were better looking people than him.

So back to the operating table he went and he spent another 2 years under the watchful eyes of nurses and doctors alike.

This cycle went on for almost 10 years: Troy would go under the knife to have himself altered, but each time he did, he'd get disgusted at what he'd see in the mirror after 6 months.

There came a time when Troy's health began deteriorate rapidly. He did not know what was causing it and didn't think much about it till he was bed-ridden. It was only when he was hospitalized that the doctors told him a silicon implant in him broke and caused an internal infection. The doctors tried to save his life by administering antibiotics, but it did not help (Troy had already built up a strong resistance to antibiotics because he never finished the course of antibiotics prescribed to him after each operation; he was too distracted about looking like someone new.)

Troy slowly faded away. As he laid dying in the hospital with his parents by his side, it dawned upon him that he had no friends at all. All the years he spent chasing his dream of looking like someone new robbed him of the opportunity of making true friends. He also noticed that his parents did not look one bit sad at all, in fact they look like they had difficulty trying to recognize their beloved son. It was there and then that Troy began to see that he did not recognize himself either.

He took a mirror on the side of his bed and stared into it.

Who is that dying? The "someone new" I always wanted to be or the "real me"? Who is it that is already dead? The "real me" or that "someone new" I always wanted to be?

Putting the mirror aside, Troy turned to his side with his back facing his parents. Tears flowed from his eyes as the truth slowly settled into him:

Everything he has done revolved around himself but he didn't seem to exist at all now. Nobody seems to know who he really is, even himself.

He has no friends.

He never took the time to appreciate what he had. Even when he became a new person after an operation, he never took the time to truly appreciate what had been given to him. He simply gave it up by going for another operation, expecting even better results.

He always wanted more, but ended up with nothing.

Picking up the mirror, he decided to, for once, be contented with who he is and what he has. He smiled at himself in the mirror, held on to his parents hands and died.

His parents finally cried when he went, for it was the first time Troy ever smiled at himself in the mirror.

"Satisfied, what a priceless treasure it is to be content. To wish for nothing more than what I have right now..." - Lee "Scratch" Perry

This is fictional story. Anything references made to real persons or events is pure coincidence.

Side Profile

Whenever I take a photo, there is a certain angle of which I must turn my face so that I'd look good. Anything other than that would make me look like a dork.

Really.

I experimented with a couple of angles and was thoroughly digusted with the terrible shots till I finally found the perfect one.

Ever since I found that perfect angle, I've always made sure that I'm on the left in a photograph. It actually gets quite extreme and annoying sometimes. I'd willingly ask a girl to get up and change seats with me if she's on the wrong side.

There's no time to be paiseh, I need to look good.

I don't care if she minds, I need to look good.

I don't care if she grumbles under her breath or slaps me, I need to look good.

But if, for whatever reason, I cannot be on the left, I'd still turn my face 45 degrees to the right and show what I consider to be the "most photogenic" side of my face - my side profile, the left side that is.

I need to look good.

Really.

Don't snigger. I know there are many out there who're like me, including you. I'm just more transperent about things, that's all.

Okay, arrogance and vanity aside. Don't you think that it is the same with life?

Like us, there's always a certain perspective we look fabulously stunning in while in other perspectives, we don't look as good, maybe even a lot worse. It all depends on which angle the photographer shoots from - the best one or the worse one. Looks don't really matter, the angle does.

It is the same with life. It can get depressing and it can get really ugly at times. But that shouldn't matter, instead how you look at it should. If you don't know what angle to look at during turbulent times, then experiment till you find out. When you've found the perfect angle to look at life, you'd find that it is actually very beautiful. That's the point the problems and the pain will naturally fade to grey.

And who knows, you might just be singing along to Dido's Thank You like I did.

"and it's not so bad, not so bad at..."

21

For me, being 21 means...

You can't behave like a kid anymore.

You won't be able to enjoy the Mighty Morphing Power Rangers like you used to.

Toys don't come alive they moment you lay hands on them.

A pair of scissors is just a pair of scissors and not some spaceship like you used to imagine them to be.

Your parents can kick you out of the house and ask you to fend for yourself if you piss them off.

Your relatives are going to start asking whether you have a girlfriend.

Jazz the Jack Rabbit is lame.

Any argument is a waste of time.

Life is going to become a bore.

The frequency on your FM tuner just went down.

Clubbing becomes an extremely taxing activity.

Late nights out wear you out easily.

And the list goes on; it's non-exhaustive, I believe. It's strange what age does to us isn't it? My birthday's today by the way, and surprisingly, it doesn't feel anything like before. It seems eerily similiar to any other day.

Oh, and I forgot. I haven't even made a birthday wish. Maybe I should now and since it's my 21st, I shall grant myself two wishes. The first one is: I wish I wouldn't need a reason to wish in the first place. The second would be: I wish I could...

Smiles Politely

Smiling politely in the face of adversity - an act of valiant bravery, or an act of complete stupidity?