Wednesday, June 22, 2011

On piano classes

I hated piano classes. My parents forced me to take them, and for 12 years, I endured it. My piano teacher hated my guts, swear to god. I, to her, was a fork in her eye. She, to me, was a toadstool growing from my anus.

And I still don't know why my parents forced me to it. I threw tantrums, I cried, I tried to murder the piano, and yet they prevailed. They said, once you start something, you have to finish it. I took the exam for Grade 8 twice. I failed twice. Only then did they say, 'Fine, enough.'

They didn't get the idea that I just wasn't any good at it. My left hand and my right hand were at war with each other. They just weren't synchronized when it came to those ivory and ebony keys. Scales? More like Prelude to the Apocalypse. I had no rhythm, I was very bad at memorizing notes, and I tended to play Fortissimo even when the piano sheet screamed Pianissimo.

It didn't help that my piano teacher, a spinster in her forties (at that time) truly loathed me. She'd hit me with a ruler she kept on her side of the piano. She'd hit me right at the knuckles, the loathsome bitch. She whack my back if my posture wasn't straight enough. She'd air her armpits and flap them with one hand, making phap-ing noises (honest to goodness, she'd do that). She'd shout at me in front of everyone, and she once commented that I was turning into a boy because I cut my hair really short. What did that have to do with playing the piano? Political correctness, some? Lost on her. She, too, endured me for 12 years, a student with absolutely no interest in what she was teaching. Perhaps that was why she hated me. Blame my parents!

Looking back, I'm thankful that I'm able to read notes. I've forgotten a lot of what was taught, especially those alto clefs and whatnot, but I'm still able to read a sheet when I see one. During my heydays, I was able to play Richard Clayderman's Ballade Pour Adeline by heart, and I'm still able to play the intro to Beethoven's Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia (aka Moonlight Sonata) without looking at the sheet. I'm bragging now, I know. So yes, I'm thankful to be able to read notes, but am I thankful for 12 years of agony? Hell no.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

On making the first move

It's not that I don't want to make the first move when I see a cute guy, it's just that I'm not goddamn bold enough. I'm actually quite bashful, even more so when I meet people for the first time.

(Disclaimer: Only when I'm sober. When I've had some to drink, I can talk Chong's head off and meet the randomest strangers)

So last Saturday, I had dinner with my mum and my aunt. We walked to a nearby kopitiam, and on the way back, we decided to stop by at 7-11 because my mum wanted to buy some drinks.

Lo and behold, there was a cute guy paying at the counter. He was tall, a bit Japper-looking, complete with a biker hat and man-boots. Sexy. Boy, could he pull it off.

And by jove, he was looking at me. I don't know if this was because I'm naturally hot, or because of the outfit I was wearing. I had on my bright red singlet which I use to go to the gym with, and my blue and red Hawaiian bermudas which I use to go to sleep with. (Refer to an earlier post in which I mentioned that I am able to go out in my pajamas. Here is one occasion I absolutely regret having done so). I kid you not. That was what I was wearing.

I suppose I should have attempted to smile, but I was afraid he might mistake me for a panda (I had absolutely no make-up on, zilch). And so, he walked out after paying, leaving me staring longingly whilst he zipped past in a black Honda City.

Yes, yes, I know I should have smiled. Making the first move shouldn't be equated to skinning oneself with a rusty spoon or taping one's eyes open for 78 hours.

So I did, today. I saw a cute guy at Borders (an intelligent hottie, how exquisite!). Although he smiled first, at least I didn't immediately turn away and ask to be excused while I run to the nearest toilet to barf out of anxiety. I smiled back :)

Monday, June 13, 2011


I'm thinking of starting a Single People Alone Together club (a rip-off of About A Boy's Single Parents Alone Together club). It's where we single people come together and drink and smoke and socialize (so if you don't drink and you're anal about smokers, fuck off and start your own SPAT).

We'll meet up every weekend and try out pubs and clubs and bistros and cafes, and have witty, slap-stick, funny, and sometimes intelligent conversations, and basically have a good time (minus the emo-ness, you can join an emo single people club for that). What say you? Are you in?

Oh, by the way, the chances of getting laid are very minimal. For that, you probably have to start your own We Only Want Sex (WOWS) club.

Friday, June 10, 2011

How addicted are you to Angry Birds?

Do you actually feel like staying home on weekends just to play Angry Birds? This means forgoing your miserable social life just so that you can launch birds on little green pigs.

Do you feel like pulling your hair out, throwing your phone on the floor, and stomping on it whenever someone texts you whilst you are playing Angry Birds (especially when you've just launched a bird that has the ability to shit a bomb or split into three useless tinier versions of itself)? Not to mention an intense urge to go to the person who texted you to kick him/her in the shin.

Either I'm very addicted to Angry Birds, or I've got anti-social & anger issues.

Men and hardware shops

Disclaimer: I'm speaking in general. One broom sweeps all.

When men enter hardware shops, their eyes light up as though they see Megan Fox naked. Honestly. Like how I am drawn to a nail bar or a shoe shop, there's this magnetic pull which draws my dad (I go window-shopping with him every week) into the hardware shop in Queensbay Mall. I try to avoid the wing with the damn shop. If unavoidable, I follow him in equipped with enough yawns to last me a year. Yes, he can stay in the place, enraptured, for hours.

Drills, paint, screws, nuts, bolts, hammers, brushes, and a plethora of hoses and watchamacallits. I view these objects with the disdain a cat shows bowl of salad. If I could, I'd pay someone to change my goddamn lightbulb. Leaking tap? Put a bucket underneath. Shaky chair? Buy a goddamn new one. I'm practical that way.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Now, if I were a man for a day...

First thing I'd do, I'd fondle my genitals, naturally. I mean, come on. It would be impossible to resist the urge to stick my hands down my pants to check if the plumbing works. You know, spank the monkey, stroke the dolphin, tickle the gorilla, and whatever else animal associated with self-appeasement.

Next thing I'd do, I'd walk into the gent's. It's always fascinated me, how men can pee next to each other in the open. Yeah sure there's this itsy bitsy little urinal sidepiece, which serves as much purpose as Paris Hilton's panties.

Back to the topic. I'd take a piss. Next to another guy. And peep at him. Good god. I suppose I'd have to prepare to run like hell if he decides to be offended.

Oh wait, now that I'm a guy, I can get into fights because my physique (I'm imagining being turned into a fit, 6'2" male with badass facial hair) would allow me to better take hits. I'd probably get into a fight, just for the fun of it. I always tell my mum anyway that if I were born a guy, I'd probably be covered with battle scars.

Then I'd go to the nearest KTV lounge and pick a companion. I'd like to know how it feels to be served hand and foot by an illegal sex worker. Apparently they'd even feed you, how nice. After the party is over, I'd pay her extra to fornicate.

Ooh, I'd also like to know how it would feel like to sit with my legs crossed, you know, testicles and all.

This post is rather vulgar, isn't it? I think I should post warnings at the beginning.