My Outer Child

I remember the last time I was in a toy shop quite vividly. The giddy excitement, the whirring colours, and the fantastical sounds... it was all dreamily magical. I ran up the tall stairs and swerved around the crowded corners, right up to the exact shelf where I knew I would find what I was looking for: a gargantuan, pristine box of Lego, featuring the likes of roundheaded Batman, Robin, Bane and Poison Ivy. Fit with a costume-changing lift, rotating drilling vehicle, and flickable missiles, this was it: the treasure that I had longed for. And it was all mine for the taking.

That was about a month ago.

For those that know me even just fairly well, I'm a bit childish. And when I say "a bit", I really mean "very". And by "very", I actually mean "way too". But it's something I've come to embrace. I like cartoons. I like Kinder eggs. I like laughably unfunny puns (I hope my blog title didn't give this one away). And fuck me, but man, do I like Lego.

And yes, it has been the subject of disdain by some  - I'm twenty-two and fiddling with little plastic toys in my bedroom (that's no euphemism). But I've long realised that the joyfulness I feel makes the criticisms infinitesimally irrelevant.

But overlooking the mere sneers, perhaps my outward childishness could actually be a sign of some underlying maturity issues. Could I be stuck in the past, unwilling and unprepared to face an adult world filled with adult problems? Could I be masking more deep-seeded insecurities with the inevitably growing magnitude of life and its heavy responsibilities? Could I be living in fear and in denial of the adulthood that my peers around me have so easily transitioned into?

Quite the contrary, actually. Or at least I hope so. My good friend coined the term "outer child" for me, as opposed to the commonly-used term, "inner child". I'm basically like Superman: most people wear their underwear on the inside to be hidden, but I wear my bright red ones outside of my pants (also, I shoot lasers out of my eyes. I just choose not to utilise this power). But by having an outer child, I guess it's more difficult to believe I might actually have an inner adult too. I kid a lot, which makes me seem a little mindless and shallow of thought. But I also do it by choice, and so it doesn't mean I'm incapable of more pensive contemplations and mature approaches to the greater issues that come up in my life. Surely, I'm still capable of going to work and earning a salary? What about the probing and honest ideas that have ventured into the untrodden grounds of my mind? And it certainly shouldn't be beyond me to build meaningful relationships with all the different people that I meet in life. I may have an outer child, but it doesn't mean I'm inept at summoning my inner adult.

But what would I know, right? I'm wearing Batman pyjama pants that say things like "POW!".

This has been a topic I've mentioned before to another friend. She wisely (as always) pointed out that I might not be childish, but instead, youthful. Because let's be honest: who wants to grow up? I certainly don't. No-one enjoys paying taxes and changing the lightbulbs (there is an ever-dark corner in my living room - "I'll do it tomorrow"). Adults don't get playtime. They don't get nap time, either.  And suddenly, you're making decisions that matter in your long-run, and you have to mind your every word and action. Well, pooey. That's no fun. But rather than denying these duties and changes, I'd much prefer to deal with them on my own terms, and be reminded of simpler times. I'd like to remain youthful for as long as possible, if it means I can also choose to turn on Adult Mode when the time calls for it.

I guess this is all just a long-winded way of saying "don't judge a book by its cover". Gosh, all these words just to rehash some cheesy one-liner. That makes me sad. I might as well have typed all of this in Comic Sans. Perhaps blogging is too big for me - there's too much thinking! Back to figuring out how to assemble this one-thousand-piece Lego Batcave.

Na na na na na na na na Batmaaaaaaan!

Giving Birth

Hey Lok Over There.

It's a play on my middle name, Hey Lok, and the most classic way to distract someone's attention. Trust me, there was heavy internal debate as to whether a comma should have followed the first word. I've also already imagined what the potential scenario might be like when someone asks me in person for the name of my blog:

"It's called 'Hey Look Over There', but without one of the O's in 'Look'."

This is followed by a bewildered look. I then must go on to regurgitate the above reasoning. How smooth. Oh well. What's done is done, and I'm not looking back.

A blog has always been one of those things that I've pondered about starting, and fantasised about how thoughtful and well-written it might be. So after a recent push of inspiration, I am now spreading my mind-legs and displaying my most intimate gateway for all to see, so that I may birth this spawn into existence and into this world, connected via the twisted umbilical cord of truth to the bloody placenta of my imagination. Note of warning: I take my metaphors to the extreme. Are umbilical cords even connected to placentas? How would I know, I've never given birth until now. But I'm sure a thoughtful blogger would've done the research beforehand. I said this blog might be well-written.

Naming my blog was much more difficult than what naming my first-born child will be like. Heck, I already have four names lined up for my non-existent children (no, you may not ask what they are - I'm very conscious of intellectual property theft). But since I've had so long to marinate in my thoughts of what could be, hopefully, there will at least be enough to write about for the near future. As I tend to do with most things I am obsessed with, I've noted down a fair few potential topics - twelve, to be exact (five of which are continuing 'series', if successful). My hope is that this won't become one of those long-forgotten projects that I start and never finish, much like an abandoned and unloved child.

So what will this blog be about? Me, I suppose. How egotistical does that sound? But the golden rule to writing is to write what you know (I think), and if there's one thing I know, it's me. Or do I? What a moment for an identity crisis - just as I'm about to start a blog.

But for now, I think I need a bit of rest whilst my body tries to cope with this monumental life event. I'm predicting many a sleepless night caused by my  new offspring. I look forward to maternity leave from work.

Oh, and my first name is Lawrence.