06/01 Direct Link
Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

Herself. The loneliness of making a purchase alone. Yet there is irony in that tone: to consider something so tantalizing to the emotions as a mundane chore, and having to do it solely because everyone else couldn’t be bothered to. But the flowers would have to match the vase, which only her memory could permit to see where it had been kept away. Along with the picture-frame, the towels with rose embroidery, and all the other gifts he’d given her, put away in a box labeled “To dispose”, which was undisposed.
06/02 Direct Link
George recalled only too well how much he had hated his own father. A friendly ogre who found coins in your ear and who made origami squirrels and who shrank slowly over the years into an angry, drunken little man who thought praising children made them weak and never admitted that his own brother was schizophrenic, and who kept shrinking so that by the time his children were old enough to hold him to account he had performed the most impressive trick of all by turning into a self-pitying arthritic figure too insubstantial to be the butt of anyone’s anger.
06/03 Direct Link
Another close-up of the mascara bleeding out of your eyes? Or is it going to be an accentuation of your full figure made beautiful by the $1,200 Armani dress and made cheap by the fact that it was shot in front of the mirror in the changing room of the boutique (only then can people see the sleek camera that you’re using!)? That’s what’s going to be uploaded on Flickr again, isn’t it. Along with the captions that go in the extremes of detail or the lack of it, eg. “I bleed black” or “mE sO cHiO wOrXx smiley smiley”.
06/04 Direct Link
Eggs are the best thing ever: who would have thought something coming out of a chicken’s ass could taste so good? And the versatility it provides in the kitchen is just amazing: omelettes, half-boiled, fried, sunny-side up, white only, yolk only etc. Breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, supper, they’re easy to whip up and so good to eat or slurp. Cracked raw into a pint of stout, whipped raw to stick the ends of wanton skin, cooked with a runny yolk to let the marigold yellow ooze over the white rice, dashed with a little dark soya sauce. Best. Thing. Ever.
06/05 Direct Link
Old woman,

You’ve got to be frickin’ kidding me by jiggling your wobbly bits, doing that ‘50s dance move on national TV. You’re no longer 18, that pearl necklace doesn’t conceal your haggard neck, and your wrinkly skin is drooping to the floor. Your impeccable English does not make you modern as much as it makes you sound moronic – speak your own dialect Grandma. Your attitude and choice of words and tone and accent and ARGH MY GOD JUST DISAPPEAR . But again it looks like you’re going home with $10 instead of a possible $250,000 so orbee-quack!

06/06 Direct Link
I remember when I just found out that usernames are not case-sensitive (most of them anyway), I would type my username in all sorts of variations of sticky-caps. seaHWANG@gMAIl.cOM or something along those lines, getting a somewhat cheap thrill with each new look I gave my boring email address with a different position of a capital letter. Recently I found out that the dots in Gmail accounts don’t count. Hurrah! seAH…..wAng……., se.a…, s..e..AHW.a….nG. It’s like finding a glitch in an otherwise flawless system and celebrating small victories. Or the early signs of insanity. wOrLd…..: don’t say I didn’t warn you.
06/07 Direct Link
One cannot help but wonder how is it really like living like that. Feeling the need to run away from wherever you came from just to survive – surely this place would pulverize you if you stayed even just a moment longer. It wasn’t so much stifling as it was you needing the freedom you sniffed in road trips, hitchhiking and independence. Perhaps with a group of close friends, moving around, living like gypsies, keeping track of accounts over a meal at a deserted diner at a highway rest-area. Food, lodging, clothes and gas. Six strong hands on the steering wheel.
06/08 Direct Link
It’s always fair. The ugly people would be totally secure with their looks and go on to lead self-fulfilling lives, the pretty ones would have shortcomings. Bad complexion, good hair; uneven feet, pretty toes; weak ankles, green fingers; bad eyesight, amazing voice. I like imagining the beautiful and glamorous on the red carpet crestfallen and throwing fits in their bedrooms, superheroes leading horrible love lives, an outstanding politician’s kryptonite: a non-existent family. On the other hand – the poor living decent lives and finding pleasures in the simplest of events. Consider the symmetry of things and finding beauty in its asymmetry.
06/09 Direct Link
Her face glistens with morning sunshine. From the other side of the glass display counter where he can open up a sliding door to take things out, things must look different. He looks through the other side to see her pair of eyes concentrating on the exquisite selection of pastries, and the lips underneath the eyes, moist with saliva. Her eyes however, see nothing but the mouthwatering freshly-bakes, and scrutinize every detail on the food, from surface area covered with chocolate chips to the number of almond clusters used. She sees the beautiful cakes; he sees her beautiful face.
06/10 Direct Link
The night is still young, but she can’t be bothered relighting the fire. The firewood’s damp from the mist – for a moment she considers tearing off all the labels on the alcohol bottles. That’ll probably be enough to burn for the whole weekend.

Shall I drink this depression off? Nah, I’ll try sleeping it out, first.

Her body is asleep but her mind’s awake. Just the opposite of a coma patient. She wonders which feels worse.

Gar’s awake. Wordless, her body brings her to his chair on the verandah. They smoke in silence, sharing the cigar puff and puff about.
06/11 Direct Link
Ever considered the hotel room post-check-out, pre-cleanup? Not freshly laundered sheets, but freshly-shaped butt indentations on the queen size bed left by previous guests. Ruffled too, creases from last night’s snoring, dandruffed pillows kicked onto the carpet. Oh, the carpet. Ringwormed feet rubbing against it, fallen pubic hair, accidental saliva/snot spills. Warm toilet-bowl seat, used condom in the sink (empty wrapper still on bedside table, torn open in a flurry of sex hormones just last night). Cigarette burns on the arms of the lounging chair, viscous body fluid left on the mirror. Flies hovering around a half-eaten box of KFC.
06/12 Direct Link
“…Are you sure about this?”
“What, you doubting me now?”
“No! I’m just saying…”
“What, what EXACTLY are you saying?”
“Don’t snap at me!”
“Then don’t ask pointless questions!”

“Are we there yet?”
“You’ll know when we get there.”
“Will they hear us? The people there…will they get angry and chase us out?”
“Nope, no one will hear us. No one can.”

“…You’ve been here before, right?”
“It’s like the home I never had.”
“What’s it like?”
“The usual. Minus the urban madness.”
“Are there others? Other like us?”
“There’s no ‘us’. You and me: we’re different.”
“Right. Sorry.”
06/13 Direct Link
It’s a 1000-degree oven we’ve been baked in for the whole afternoon. The sun has to die. The air in the house smells of stale heat, and the furniture is warm to the touch. Two large sweat stains on the leather sofa from a pair of thighs that overstayed its position, cracks on the floury walls and a curdled-up glass of milk on the coffee table. The idea of a coaster had slipped someone’s mind again – a growing water ring forms as drops of condensation drip down from the exterior of the cup. Evidently we’re not the only ones sweating.
06/14 Direct Link
I’ve started crossing out the days past on my desk calendar. I don’t know effect it’ll bring – one would just have to wait and see. What I do know is why I began doing it: the holidays are looming to an end. And I don’t want to spend each day waking up in the middle of noon aimlessly clicking on the computer screen. Each X marked down is a self-imposed judgment – an inner voice that checks and scrutinizes the day it cancels out – did you accomplish anything today? I look at the uncrossed days and pray for their fruitful end.
06/15 Direct Link
“Hey, you look different.” I would award her many brownie points for pointing out something no less pointless than not pointing out anything at all. It’s been a whole decade; did you think I would’ve not changed? Not everybody wallows in the past searching for that lost something in their childhoods, although you seem pretty bent on doing that for the rest of your lives. Your whimsical search for “lost innocence”, the “purity of the newborn child”, blah-blah frickin’ blah, you done yet? Unlike you, we’ve all moved on. Sure sometimes we turn behind, but what good does that bring.
06/16 Direct Link
Jerry’s mother would let me take the car out once in a while, for a joy-ride through the hot summer road. It had those windows that you need to roll down to get them open. I love that. 20 years back I used to roll and unroll the window from the backseat during our weekend drives. Now our car has electric windows. Every car does. Push the button, and the window moves up and down – god knows how it does. I like to know. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I rolled the window, and unrolled it, the wind coming in.
06/17 Direct Link
Metal sheets, iron nails: take out the stepladder – the roof’s giving way again. The hand-axe too – chop more of that wood, try to get that fire burning long enough. Red pail, towels, anything else? The plaster coming off the walls, tear out your old clothes, bedsheets, rags: don’t get a cold. And would someone fix the damn lock on the window – a few more slams from the wind and it’s ready to bang itself to smithereens. The heater’s frosted, and the gale’s blowing in again.

It’s hard to keep out the cold when you’re living a house full of holes.
06/18 Direct Link
I have these scaly patches on my skin that’ve been there since I was young. They’re clusters of tiny white dots that don’t itch or sting or anything, but when I run my hands down on my legs or arms, there they are, like mini-gardens of moss on a rock. I wonder if it’s fungus. Or pimples. Or the side effects from staying out in the sun too much when I was young.
I also have bulgy veins. I think my heart overworks itself – no need to pump so hard to send blood to my short limbs! Genes are fascinating.
06/19 Direct Link
Can’t imagine doing something “for the rest of my life”. Stuck in a cubicle, 9-5, 5 days a week, 365 days a year (minus public holidays and the days when you just “couldn’t get out of bed” (maximum 2 per-year allowed)). Life is too short to stick to one career path and work your way to the top. But that’s the way it goes. You can’t expect to be an author of a best-selling novel, go on to do a bit of event organization, wait on tables, and then try out for stage roles a few months later. Specialisation sucks.
06/20 Direct Link
Her tan line stops where her clothes begin, and there are three grapes in her hand. She balances them in between the gaps of her fingers, and recites Shakespeare.

#1: athletic, on the carpet with the furballs tickling his bare ass, his chin is against the glass table. Because he didn’t use a coaster, that’s going to leave an oil mark.

#2: the only one completely naked, and completely bald. Shaved off hair sticks to his chest like a thousand pins and he is lying with legs vertical up against the wall.

#3: a dog.

Others: Shaver, vibrator, candlestick.

06/21 Direct Link
I grabbed the closest thing to throw against the cockroach, but missed it by 2 inches. It was my economics textbook. Scrap paper with answers for questions I’ve forgotten are strewn over the expanse of the table. A little bit of chem, little bit of math. Equations mostly, half-done, ended with an impatient “…” scribbled down because I couldn’t bother to calculate the answer. Sometimes doodles of things that won’t normally appear when I’m holding a pen, like alien creatures or ugly faces. Picked up the first thing I found and threw it out the window. It was my sanity.
06/22 Direct Link
A girl with her “Today-I’m-a-Princess-and-also-a-Slut” getup – white frock, black leggings up to her knees where her skirt ends, flouncing about to let others catch a teaser of the pleaser underneath that skirt line. I hardly recall an “Omg Ugly” department in the departmental store. Her mum steps out of the changing room, and they both discuss what I would presume to be the most striking thing – how the dress hugs the 100 layers of fat on her belly and her distended boobs.

I imagine my own eyes somewhere else, squinting out the Tokyo street lights and the harsh Australian sun.
06/23 Direct Link
Yo, can’t help but notice you teenager dudes standing there, spewing rubbish! So sorry for constraining your activities on the train such as swinging your body wildly while guffawing out loud (GOL!), bear-hugging each other to denounce your heterosexuality, and attempting to speak hokkien! Not like it’ll matter – you’ll bump into me anyway if I happen to stand in your way of convulsion. Oh and your hokkien really sucks. Maybe if you could go 12 years back and talk to your grandparents more often, you wouldn’t end up as a bunch of dipshits attempting to speak dialect that’s so heavily-accented.
06/24 Direct Link
Wow, two instances with Mr. Too Cool For School in one day! Nice hair by the way – only half of Japan doesn’t sport the exact same cut/style– way to go for being so one of a kind an’ all! Another black jacket – zipped all the way up to your neck I see! Not unlike one of my female classmates – nah, I think you got longer hair than her. You’re cool. That ear-stud totally kicks the butt of those who call you wimpy. And those “low-riders” riding on your ass-crack showing off a little som’ng som’ng of yo’ boxers? T3H SEX!
06/25 Direct Link
I knocked my jacket zipper against the table and immediately, I wished I was dead. It made a huge ring that reverberated through the deathly-silent library, up to the 11th floor, and down again. The readers around the table shot me looks – as if they’re damn quiet! I can hear the breathing of the woman sitting next to me, the loud cough that old man gives every few minutes. But still, I remain utterly embarrassed. From plugging in the laptop, shifting into my seat, switching on the laptop, I’ve made more noise than 3 whole days’ combined in this place.
06/26 Direct Link
My stomach’s becoming a bit of a bitch. Have to force myself to down some breakfast within an hour after waking up nowadays, else there’ll be a blinding pain on the top of my stomach, right in the middle where my ribcage ends. Absolutely hate all kinds of breakfast that is not prepared fresh. Breakfast should be eggs, ham, toast, grilled mushroom, pancakes, fruit salad; not biscuits, cookies, muesli bars or untoasted bread. Who eats those biscuits from a tin anyway. Aren’t they supposed to be rations for people strutting through jungles or something. Stupid tasteless dry mass of crumbs.
06/27 Direct Link
Celebrated end of common tests today by rushing down to the library to start on my research paper draft. Life is fantastic that way, isn’t it; leaves you absolutely no time to catch your breath. While others were on their way to carnivals, movie theaters and chalets, I’m whittling time away here, typing this useless entry to compliment my waste of time sitting here among (pseudo?)intellectuals and the many subjects they’re reading up on. This balding 55 year old man is sitting in front of me inspecting some physics theses, myopic glasses off. He looks a bit of a genius.
06/28 Direct Link
Your manipulative silence is only evident in the crowd’s adamant refusal to shut up. Nothing spectacular, nothing worth waiting for. Just the same sound I was expecting from the same mouth, the same word choice from that same foul, foul mouth. You remind me of someone I used to know, an imaginary friend I vaguely remember. Whose traits were similar – talking in a pitch only I can hear, sharing particular musings and anecdotes. It took me a while to find out that the lack of physical representation of my disappeared friend manifested itself in you, but I had moved on.
06/29 Direct Link
I smelled her before I saw her: that unmistakable scent of fresh strawberries dipped in five alternating layers of sugar, cream and milk. I wonder how the body can give out some sort of natural scent. Is it repetitive usage of the same flavour of shower gel? Deodorant? Detergent for washing clothes? I like to imagine that inside each one of us is a distinct chemical, hidden underneath all our skin pores, which slowly diffuses our “natural scent”. Ross described Rachel’s hair as “coconutty”. I know people with “Permanent Sweat”, “Indian Rose” and “Vanilla Bedsheets”. I wonder what mine’s like.
06/30 Direct Link
Looks easy now, but nothing is for sure in this place. Tourists are walking to my corner and looking out at the impossible view. I can see the city’s skyscraping horizon from my reflective laptop screen - breathtaking even when laterally inverted. The roof of the highest building ends at the top of my browser window and its grey window-panels splatter all over the words I’m typing. If I look closely enough, I can see my shadowy face right in the middle of it all, like a looming omniscient presence over the life I write about and the world outside.