Denial
- is in his mid 20's - is a taurus male(all you perverts can leave now) - always craves for good music - will never put up naked pictures of himself here(all you perverts who are still here can finally get lost now) - will realise his dream of travelling around the world - will own properties and one of which is a resort by a beautiful beach - hopes to strike 1st division lottery someday so that he can bum professionally - is currently brain dead and will continue some other timeWednesday, February 16, 2005
Current track: Engima - Sadness
Current mood: Numb
I used to go to clubs with a certain level of expectation and occasionally think "My future girlfriend might be here". I don't think that anymore.
As a product in today’s competitive dating market, I'm not considered exactly as one flying off the shelves; I'm not especially tall nor good looking but just pleasant enough to pass off, which I'm just thankful that my past partners actually saw past my cheek fats and big butt.
Ok, maybe there might be a chance that something magical might happen, but any of that coming from clubs are relatively low. I think that people, especially women, who club mostly to have fun and, more or less, aren't expecting to meet anyone decent in dim, revolving/flashing lights. It's just not the right place, no?
So now I expect the standard usual, most importantly is enjoying the company I'm with other than the music, drinks and dance, the occasional puke-infested toilet cubicles in the Gents, the long queues stretching out of the Ladies that makes you wonder if each of them were in the middle of playing Kasparov inside. Or shameless people outrageously flirting/dirty dancing and when the bright lights go up for a few seconds, the realisation that the "hot chick" is actually --- not.
Recently I suspect I'm cursed with a complete lack of empathy, or even worse. Quite often I can't imagine what other people are thinking or feeling. And when I can, but many times purposely avoid engaging them so I can abstain dealing with any emotional discomfort.
As a result, I haven't been completely honest to myself in more ways than one, thus in a way affecting my blogging habits and intervals. Other than reasons which I must do this, it frusts me sometimes not able to write freely about the things and thoughts I want on this space here.
It gets worse and worse. I wish problems could be cleanly solved, like if it was just a simple matter of bribing the right person or burning down the right bungalow. But no, this is never the way of things, not these days.
Escapism has always been a big problem for me, but I’ll continue to cling to it. More often than not, I'm lucky enough to avoid getting myself into any situations I cannot extricate myself from, but this gets harder and harder as I get older. Most of the problems I’ve had are the kind you can get away from in a taxi, or in several cases an airplane, but with each passing birthday this becomes more untenable.
Learning to live with bad decisions, all part of the fun of being an adult.
Couldn't help staying up late, and when I snooze off weird dreams occur. But not like I'm the type that goes to bed early anyway; I blame it on sex, vodka, coke, blockbuster, cable TV, midnight screenings, 24-hour eating places, singing along to Lisa Loeb's Stay like an idiot, exam finals, women dancing on platforms and bar tops, Internet/IM/online games, the girl who won’t hang up, the book you can’t put down, and the irrefutable fact that staying up is always more fun than waking up.
Current mood: Numb
I used to go to clubs with a certain level of expectation and occasionally think "My future girlfriend might be here". I don't think that anymore.
As a product in today’s competitive dating market, I'm not considered exactly as one flying off the shelves; I'm not especially tall nor good looking but just pleasant enough to pass off, which I'm just thankful that my past partners actually saw past my cheek fats and big butt.
Ok, maybe there might be a chance that something magical might happen, but any of that coming from clubs are relatively low. I think that people, especially women, who club mostly to have fun and, more or less, aren't expecting to meet anyone decent in dim, revolving/flashing lights. It's just not the right place, no?
So now I expect the standard usual, most importantly is enjoying the company I'm with other than the music, drinks and dance, the occasional puke-infested toilet cubicles in the Gents, the long queues stretching out of the Ladies that makes you wonder if each of them were in the middle of playing Kasparov inside. Or shameless people outrageously flirting/dirty dancing and when the bright lights go up for a few seconds, the realisation that the "hot chick" is actually --- not.
I'm a notcissist; I like looking and snapping at anything else other than myself.
Recently I suspect I'm cursed with a complete lack of empathy, or even worse. Quite often I can't imagine what other people are thinking or feeling. And when I can, but many times purposely avoid engaging them so I can abstain dealing with any emotional discomfort.
As a result, I haven't been completely honest to myself in more ways than one, thus in a way affecting my blogging habits and intervals. Other than reasons which I must do this, it frusts me sometimes not able to write freely about the things and thoughts I want on this space here.
It gets worse and worse. I wish problems could be cleanly solved, like if it was just a simple matter of bribing the right person or burning down the right bungalow. But no, this is never the way of things, not these days.
Escapism has always been a big problem for me, but I’ll continue to cling to it. More often than not, I'm lucky enough to avoid getting myself into any situations I cannot extricate myself from, but this gets harder and harder as I get older. Most of the problems I’ve had are the kind you can get away from in a taxi, or in several cases an airplane, but with each passing birthday this becomes more untenable.
Learning to live with bad decisions, all part of the fun of being an adult.
Couldn't help staying up late, and when I snooze off weird dreams occur. But not like I'm the type that goes to bed early anyway; I blame it on sex, vodka, coke, blockbuster, cable TV, midnight screenings, 24-hour eating places, singing along to Lisa Loeb's Stay like an idiot, exam finals, women dancing on platforms and bar tops, Internet/IM/online games, the girl who won’t hang up, the book you can’t put down, and the irrefutable fact that staying up is always more fun than waking up.
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