Monsters live within us, and yet we constantly look for them on the outside of us.

Mooto says it right: I am my own nemesis.
Finished 2.4.

18:08.

Ooh, I actually passed. Still, I think I will probably be dead in a few minutes. But there's the fact that I can still type. Albeit a little slower than usual.

I was dead last in my batch, and dead proud of it.
Reading other blogs usually make me think.

Or feel. Which I don't like.

Yes, I want to be a fricking cyborg.

It's so much better. You don't have to worry about things that penetrate and spike, you don't have to worry about being human, living up to expectations because a cyborg is mechanical and can have the processor someone will invent in a thousand years, and can type at the speed of light and ace all exams because of some terabytes worth of hard disk drives. And the RAM will be adjusted to be somewhat like a human being's but still slightly different so that it's faster.

And so what if they can't feel? It's mostly the bad things that they're missing out on anyway.

And you know it's always human emotions that complicate equations and cause the equilibrium of everything to be disturbed. Without emotions, everything would be wonderfully clinical. Nothing to distract you, nothing to think about except whatever task you set for yourself, perfect self-control, no overwhelming carnal desires, no always wondering what will happen next because everything's covered already and you know exactly what will happen next, and then you know you have a chance at it, as much as everyone else, because they're no smarter or faster or prettier or slimmer or better in character or in shape or size or handwriting or typing or anything, because you already have everything done and memorized down pat, and you don't have to console yourself about something because you always know that you've gotten one hundred percent correct. Forget about agonizingly memorizing and not understanding any kind of weird concepts in math or science or the art of writing lit or bio essays or trying to calculate some formula in chemistry that you can barely remember. No more pain at someone's death, no more unfortunate incidents from some tactless but well fomulated argument, no more imperfection...



A cyborg is perfect. It is beautiful -- the very work of art that man has created, in its own image but not quite there, with amplified and personified and all manners of things, upgraded and perfected and cleaned up and tidied and all polished...



It is beautiful, devoid of any such confounding and conundrum-like emotions and feelings to come and ruin the flawless creation...


Shut up, shut up, I want that silence. Close your mouth. Pull your jaw. Shut up. Silence. 安静. Schweigen. 沈黙. 침묵.


No, I can't pronounce everything.


Devoid, empty. The best way...?
Actually
It wasn't a question,
It was a statement
That screamed
"NO GOING BACK!"

It wasn't a statement
More of a decision without full
Consent
From
All parties

It was hard to let go,
Sure of the -
The familiar, recognizable
Colour
And warmth
Emanating from the body
Oh-so-unstyled
But oh-so-unique-glorious-all-in-one

Well, it always
Comes down to the question
People always have
Subconsciously
Chosen
An answer to

Comforting Familiarity
Or
Superior Quality?

It is an odd sensation
That causes my mind to think
I wish,
For that red old car
To carry me around again
To be my wings...
We had a spot check in GEL. It was fine because I didn't get booked for anything. This time we were all ordered out of the class for a quick appearance thing. Socks, hair, nails, uniform and the such. Then the prefects checked the class.

And quite a few people got booked. They had stuff like iPods, phones and cameras. Poker cards were bookable but somehow they didn't find them. And then they went around the class. Guess where they checked?

They checked not only our bags and desks, they also told us to take off our shoes and Jean (our class chairperson) went around stepping on the toes to check for phones or for illegal substances (eg drugs). They might as well have told us to take off our socks for painted toenails or slide off our shorts to check for things stuffed in the lining instead of the pockets or strip to check if we had stuff in our bras.

They also checked all those nooks and crannies of the classroom. Like the corner of the room where the old OHP is. I hid my stuff, swaddled in newspapers and paper bags, in there last year. This year I didn't.

Overall, it's a fun experience. When you have something to hide it's more fun because you get all the adrenaline pumping and flowing through you.

Wonder when the next one is.
Here's a list of the JCs that have taekwondo as a CCA. In alphabetical order.

1. HwaCh. Art, 1-3 points. Science, 1-3 points.
2. Innova. Art, 9-19 points, Science, 5-20 points.
3. Jurong. Art, 5-13 points, Science, 5-15 points.
4. Meridian. Art, 5-9 points, Science, 2-10 points.
5. Pioneer. Art, 9-16 points. Science, 3-17 points.
6. Serangoon. Art, 8-17 points. Science, 2-6 points.
7. Temasek. Art, 4-7 points, Science, 2-6 points.
8. Victoria. Art, 2-5 points. Science, 2-4 points.

What lovely choices.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Some of my classmates looked so stunning last night.

RY did. I think she was one of those who actually looked good in heels. The rest did too, but she looked better. Hahahah. Anyway, I think I probably have an inferiority complex from last night. The rest just looked brilliant.

Oh and not to mention they towered above me in four-inch stilettos.

I felt like a midget.