Only At A Pentatonix Concert

A few months back, I went to a concert by Pentatonix in London. For those that don't know them, they are a 5-person a cappella group, which means they make music with just their vocals - no instruments whatsoever. They earned their uprising stardom through the millions of views on their YouTube videos and winning the TV a cappella competition, The Sing Off. If you haven't heard them, go learn you some right now.

From that premise alone, you can tell it was a bit of a musical nerd fest. I don't really attend concerts very much, mostly because I'm too socially awkward to know what to do at one. Do I dance? Do I stand still? Do I put my hands in the air and wave 'em around like I just don't care? But this concert I just had to check out. And let me tell you: it was mind-blowing. Their performance was absolutely adrenaline-pumping and their live vocal standard was just astoundingly impressive. But you can read about that everywhere; that's not what this blog post is about.

You see, a Pentatonix concert isn't like any other - even by a cappella event standards. Here's why:

Only at a Pentatonix concert will you find:

1. ... People singing accurate, part-specific renditions of the group's songs whilst waiting in queue. And I mean accurate - to the key and tempo.
2. ... The most synchronised audience participation. Those finger clicks and claps were precisely on the beat - all 300 of them.
3. ... That when a performer shouts "Any choir nerds in the house tonight!?", he gets a harmoniously loud response.
4. ... That the performers can sing dubstep.
5. ... That the phrase "drop the bass" is unexpectedly even more epic than usual.
6. ... The special performance involves a cello - and people go crazy for it.
7. ... The audience member serenade involves Marvin Gayes' Let's Get It On and a fake trumpet.
8. ... The performing group splitting the entire audience into three, and getting them to sing the individual parts to the song. And the audience gets it pitch perfect.
9. ... A performer asking someone to "give me an A", and an audience member produces a harmonica to give them that A.
10. ... An audience that is so passionate and in admiration of the group's musicality. 

I guess it goes to show that Pentatonix fans are really a breed of their own. An awesome breed, of course. I had a blast - Pentatonix were mindblowing, and the crowd was exhilarating. It turned out to be a lot more fun than I expected, and a notch I'm proud to have under my concert-attending belt.

Also, it gave me the chance to find out the answer: it was c) Put your hands in the air and wave them around like you just don't care.

Locked Out

I'm pretty forgetful. I mean, my memory's not terrible, but at the same time, it's not uncommon for me to forget the odd name or chore. Sometimes I'll say the same thing repeatedly, simply because I can't recall if I had mentioned it before or not. I don't mean to, really. And it doesn't mean I don't care about that person or thing in particular. My brain just isn't very good at its job. So I guess it's rather surprising that after living on my own for 15 months, today is the first time I've forgotten my keys and locked myself out.

I'm currently sitting in a McDonald's next to my house. You'd normally never catch me even near one of these establishments (I wouldn't survive the self-imposed dietary guilt), but you know: desperate times call for desperate measures. And it's also raining and windy out; I had to seek shelter.

Thankfully, my phone's at 71%, and I'm getting some good signal here. They're playing Michael Bublé Christmas tunes - I approve. With a hot choc at hand, I'm sat down alone and beginning to wonder what I can do to burn half an hour before my brother gets back. 

Normally, when I do something this stupid, I beat myself up over it. I put myself through a lot of unnecessary hell sometimes, because I feel like I deserve it. "Well done, Einstein. You've really done it this time". But tonight, I'm surprisingly calm. Yes, I gave myself a mental facepalm, but at least I didn't torture myself over something as benign and irrelevant as locking myself out.

I guess I just don't like making stupid mistakes. As much as I try to avoid them (poor memory-related or not), no amount of endless self-nagging stops me from falling into these ditches. I just make stupid decisions, in varying aspects of my life. It's like I'm almost programmed to make these mistakes. But right now, all I can say is: "meh".

I'm told I overthink and worry too much. I guess these kind of moments is when that would kick in usually. But an important lesson I learnt a while ago is that you have to pick your battles. Ultimately, I'm human, just like everybody else. Some things are worth panicking, worrying and pulling your hair out for. This is not one of them. If you let every little thing get to you, come the time life throws the big stuff at you, you won't be able to cope. You'll have to go the next level of self-loathing, and honestly, I've had enough of that as is.

So instead of worrying my little head off, I'm just going to enjoy this hot choc and blog about my stupidity on my phone.

Besides, my brother should be back any moment now. Thanks for sharing this idiotic moment with me, Internet.

Bored Games

Recently, I've been a bit obsessed with board games and card games, especially of the newer generation (so none of that endlessly rehashed Monopoly malarkey). Through thorough review research, multiple games shop visits and convention trips, and prolonged perusing for price comparison, I've just started my collection with a few games. Namely, they are: the dungeon-crawling, friendly back-stabbing card game, Munchkin (and subsequent, awesome gift from a friend of the spin-off Axe Cop version); the co-operative, medical countdown-to-doom board game, Pandemic; and finally - my personal favourite - king-of-the-hill-style, dice-rolling mayhem, King of Tokyo (and the two expansion packs - and eagerly waiting the standalone sequel game). It's a tiny collection, but each one was the culmination of a lot of elimination and hunting.

Mandatory 'rawr rawr rawr' to be said throughout the course of the game.

So why board games? Surely when it comes to gaming, the modern day has a lot more to offer. I myself love to play video games, on consoles and the PC (calluses on my hands are from all-nighter Street Fighter IV sessions at a friend's, and the broken mouse was the result of a few bad games on League of Legends), so surely board games are a bit boring and backwards by now? No groundbreaking graphics, no fancy animations, and no advanced tech to boot. But isn't it odd how social gaming has to be put back into video games (Candy Crush Life Requests, I'm looking at you)? You don't see many games nowadays that only boast a purely one-player experience; they all include some sort of social element to share your gaming experience with others, however minute or core it may be. I only played League of Legends so that I could team up with my friends, and I only played Street Fighter IV so that I can kick said friends' asses. "Come at me, bro." 

However, as we all started getting jobs, moving to different time zones, and generally just getting busier with life, gaming together online slowly started to fall by the wayside - and so did my interest in it. Chalk it up to growing up, but if you know me well enough, that's probably not the case. Even when online gaming means we can still play together no matter where we are in the world (pending working out time differences), I just don't game that much any more - not even on my own. But on the other hand, board games at its essence demands to be played together. I also love the strategic thinking, the expansive imagination, and the engaging role-playing. But at the core of it, the togetherness is why I still love board games.

And I've had this easily excitable passion of mine since I was a little kid, as I'm sure is the case for most of you. Why? Because back then we didn't have access to all the video games we do now. We couldn't just take out our smartphones from our pockets and jump right into a first-person shooter. But more importantly, it was a family thing. I remember how excited I was as a kid, opening up a box of Risk and having the family gather 'round the table for games night. It was never a routinely thing, but boy, was I hyped when it was announced that we'd play - even though I lost every time. My dad would nonchalantly pretend to not care about the game (before suddenly turning the game with a surprise strategy), my brothers would gang up to eliminate me as quickly as possible (...the jerks), and my mum would comfort and cheer me up when I got massacred. But I loved it in all its entirety, because we were all present in the room and present in the experience.

Nowadays, it's too easy to be distracted. There's always a notification to check on our phones, always a page that needs refreshing, and always a show to watch on TV (as a side note, turn off your damn TV when you're on team chat!). We're so used to multitasking, that we never really actually do any one thing. Your eyes are staring at one thing, your fingers are clicking on another, your listening to something else, and who knows where your mind is at? We don't actually do four different things; we just end up doing none of them. But with a board game, you're all gathered around the same table, in the same room. Whether you're competing against one another, or working as a team to win the game, you're all present in the moment and your attention is on one objective. And that is a rare thing nowadays - all with just a bit of cardboard and plastic.

I gifted Summoner Wars, a mage-duelling card game, to a friend at my job so that we could always have an excuse to catch up after work. I recently played King of Tokyo with my brother, his girlfriend and her brother, late into the evening, instead of watching a movie. I'm currently trying to hunt down a way to get a copy of the card game, Boss Monster, possibly before Christmas time so that I'll have a chance to play with the family. But I know very well that just owning these board games won't mean that I'll be magically transported to where my friends and family are, or that we'll all suddenly have a summer holiday's worth of time to burn. I'll be the first to admit that I rarely get the chance to play any of the games from my collection. But for me, they're the representation of that childlike excitement that lives in me, and the hope that when I do get the chance to hang out with my family and friends (which is quite sad to say, rare), I'll have something for us to do together whilst we chat and catch up - without all the distractions pulling us in different directions.

I'm the Alienoid - fear my tentacles! 

But I get it; board games and card games aren't for everyone. After all, I am a bit of a geek. So I've included here a game I can suggest for you all to play. I read about it somewhere, and have played it on a few occasions, with great results. There aren't many requirements, and there'll be many opportunities for you to play, so give it shot when you next get the chance:

Stacking

Requirements:
- A sturdy table
- A meal (the more courses, the riskier!)
- Phones from players

Players:

- 2 - Unlimited (the more players, the more exciting!) 

Play length:

-Time of meal

Instructions for play:
The next time you're out with family or friends for a meal, everyone is to take out their phones (or handheld gaming devices, if applicable). Everyone then stacks their devices, facedown one on top of the other, at the centre of the table at the beginning of the meal. Despite any ringing, vibrating or blinking, you're not allowed to use your device (in fact, I highly encourage turning all devices on loud, as it makes it that much more tempting). If anyone cannot resist the urge to take their device, they can do so - at the cost of that meal's entire bill. The game ends when someone does so, or the bill is paid as per usual. As an optional side objective, you may want to partake in actual conversation with others at the table - maybe even enjoy the food and company! This game also makes for excellent thief bait.

Game variations:
- As a special rule, you may nominate one person before the game begins to be "Designated Instagrammer". That person is allowed exclusive access to their phone solely for the purpose of taking pictures of food and/or the party. Photos are to be shared later. Any other use of the phone will result in loss of the game, and a public stoning and humiliation.

- Make it into a continuous drinking game throughout the evening. Every time your phone sounds an alert, you must take a shot. You're allowed to then respond to that text or call if you want, but you must first take another shot before you take your phone from the stack. Your phone is then returned to the stack, and the fun continues.

Give it a try next time! I guarantee the first time you play this with your friends, you will be able to see people at the table literally squirm with the need to check their phones - it's hilarious. But at least it's not Monopoly, right? I mean honestly: who ever plays to the end of a game of Monopoly!?

Bad Day

I had a bad day today. Actually, I've been having a few bad days recently. But as I begin to pity myself and internally mope and gripe, I think of my role model and lifelong idol, Mr. Leslie Chow, where he once posed:

Did I die? Nope. Did I come close to dying? No, not really. So does that mean I didn't have a bad day?

I've been trying to keep tight-lipped about these negative feelings. No one enjoys listening to someone else grumble. Heck, even I get tired of listening to myself whine. Besides, I'm just dealing with the so-called "little things": work hiccups, annoying chores, uncontrollable feelings, etc. The usual stuff. But in the grander scheme of things, aren't these simply irrelevant? There are a lot bigger struggles a person could face. Like being homeless. Like not having clean water. Like not knowing whether there will be food on the table tonight. So on this spectrum, doesn't that just make me a whiney little bitch?

Perhaps I'm being too hyperbolic. However, even at a closer level, it seems like the things I worry about don't really matter that much. So I had a bad day at work, but what does that really entail? A simple mistake? Having to re-do a small portion of my work? My brother is a doctor; he works to save lives. When he has bad days at work, he doesn't come home until past midnight because he's staying behind to make sure all his patients are thoroughly and properly attended to. That spreadsheet mistake I made suddenly doesn't look so problematic anymore.

As much as it makes me feel stupid and small, in the larger context of everything around me, I'm not struggling very much - I'm getting by just fine. For most, I'm not having a bad day at all; things could be a lot worse. And whilst I think this is a good view to take to humble myself and keep my feet on the ground, I'm not everyone else - I'm only me. Which means the problems I face affect me in my own context.

I think we tend to give people a hard time about their issues because we are in hopes of making them believe that there are greater battles to face - ones that they may notice if they weren't so burdened by "the little things". For instance, it's often said that parents tend to misunderstand their teenage children easily. They assume that their high school worries are trivial at best:

"Jess said Sarah told her that she heard from Vicky that I told Hailey that Hannah called Liz a bitch. And now it looks like I'm the bitch!"

"He pushed my tray of food right off the table as I was walking back to my seat. Everyone in the cafeteria was chanting and laughing at me." (true story, bro)

"I fancy him, but he doesn't even know I exist." (not a true story, bro)

And yes, maybe sometimes we make mountains out of molehills. It's very easy to be blinded by something that is too close to you, and I'm no different. But in the context of our own world, these things do matter. My apocalypse may be someone else's walk in the park, but that doesn't change how it affects me. I still experience that bad day, and all the emotions that come with it.

So the next time you see someone having a bad day, ask why (I'm very thankful for the friends and family that do notice and ask, even when I'm trying to keep it on the inside). The little boy that dropped his ice cream, and the guy that just lost his job with a family to feed might both be going through hell. But as an outsider, provide to them both sympathy for their personal context as well as the grander scheme of things. Sometimes, it helps them move on because they needed to step back, look at the bigger picture, and realise there's more to it. And sometimes, it helps to just have someone pat you on the back and tell you: "Yeah, that really does suck, dude."

So, am I really having a bad day? Well, I've had worse days, but I've also certainly had better. I think I'll chalk this up to a bad one, because after all, bad days only last one day. I'll feel like crap for a bit, eat something not on my diet, and get to bed earlier. Here's to a better day tomorrow.

And for all those that might be having a bit of a downer right now, here's me dressed up as none other than Mr. Chow himself for Halloween:

Toodaloo, mudafuckaaaaaaaawowowowow

My First Ever Cosplay Experience

During the course of this past year of living in London, I've taken the attitude that I should be doing more new things: watching plays, going to concerts, meeting new people, etc. I'm in a really amazing city, and I think there's so much to be taken advantage of - not to mention, now that I'm leading a more independent lifestyle, I really should explore more. And it is with this hearty attitude, I decided to do something I've always thought about: cosplay at a big comic convention.

To briefly sum up my interest, I love the idea of comic cons. I've never attended one before, but I've read and watched a lot about the ones in the US. A gathering of all things nerdy and awesome just seemed like the ideal event for me to attend.

Now, admittedly, I attended the much smaller London Film and Comic Con a couple of weeks back, but that was nothing compared to the extravaganza of MCM London Comic Con that I just attended. Simple put, I just wasn't prepared for what was to come. I could go over the details of the actual convention, but I'm sure that aspect is covered elsewhere in more detail than I could possibly try. To sum up my point of view, it's a hot, crowded and busy mess. Incredibly fun, but also incredibly overwhelming. When I go next year, I will definitely be more prepared. Instead, I want to capture my first cosplay experience.

My costume was very simple, and was a reimagining of this following version of a character, Almost Prom King Amumu:

Sad Amumu is sad.

As backstory, this is a character from the immensely popular game League of Legends. Amumu is known as the Sad Mummy, and is often the focus of sympathy. All his versions are of him in unfortunate predicaments, and in this case, of him almost becoming prom king - but not quite. So from the get-go, quite an antisocial character to play. But here's how it went down...

My Almost Prom King Amumu cosplay - plushie not included.
Someone just handed it to me for a photo!

I was having trouble finding the League of Legends meet-up point (as arranged via the Facebook Group), but fortunately, noticed a very familiar top hat and sniper rifle. As it turns out, a fellow League cosplayer was also looking for the meet, and with the kind assistance of this Caitlyn (whom later was so friendly, offered to add me on Facebook), we had managed to track down the already amassed team (as it turns out, it's hard to miss a scarecrow on stilts and a dude holding a massive golden bow). They were all lining up for a big group shot, so as the two of us approached late, we were openly welcomed to join in the photo. And this is where the surrealism begins.

As I nervously approached the side of this (much larger than expected) line-up, people were cheering. But not only for all the other cosplayers, but also for me. I heard from the crowd taking photos:

Look! It's Amumu!

Aww! He even has a tear on his face!

And most excitingly:

Don't worry, Amumu! You'll get to be prom king next year!

Without skipping a beat, these people knew who I was cosplaying. And they were fans of it. As the feeling of exuberance began to take a hold of me, I mustered, in character, a loud:

Okay...

And for me, the best compliments I heard on the day weren't "That's an amazing/impressive/accurate cosplay!", but rather: "Aww..." or "Don't be sad!" - even though I was beaming underneath my mask, because they understood and appreciated my cosplay.

What followed was a frenzy of photo-taking* and gleeful admiration of the people around me. Despite my costume being quite lacklustre compared to the absolutely astonishing standard of cosplay, people couldn't have been more friendly and accommodating. At first, I was trying to get a hold of other cosplayers to take pictures with because they all simply looked so amazing. I would shyly ask for their photo, before obsessing over the details of their cosplay. We'd strike our poses, not to one camera, but a plethora of cameras and smartphones (as I later discovered, there is no one single correct camera to look to at any one time). When snapping a pic with a Thresh, I knelt to the ground next to his lantern, and without a second thought, he loomed over me and latched his hook onto my shoulder in sync. When snapping a pic with a Vladimir, I offered to Bandage Toss him, and he instantly obliged with a stunning pose (pun intended). I started talking to a very tall Singed about how difficult his costume was to wear and carry around; I gawked at an incredibly accurate and impressive Aristocrat Vayne; and I discussed the Fifth Age with an absolutely fabulous and outrageous Taric.

Helping Singed with a loose piece on his shield

One of my most favourite cosplays at the meet:
Aristocrat Vayne

This Taric was too fabulous for words.

But soon enough, bystanders that were just at the meet-up were randomly coming up to me and asking: Amumu, can I get a picture with you? The idea that a stranger wanted a photo with me took me aback every time. And then other cosplayers wanted to take pictures with me. In fact, some random steampunk dude asked for - wait for it - a hug! I'll be honest, I certainly wasn't the most popular cosplayer at the scene, and I honestly wasn't expecting anyone even noticing me there, but I wholeheartedly appreciated every single person that came up to me and asked for a photo (even after the meet-up). All I can say is that it felt surreal the entire time. It's not just photo-taking; it's this collective energy that creates an atmosphere of sheer enthusiasm.

This Thresh cosplayer instantly Death Sentences
me as I kneel down

My Bandage Toss at Vladimir was a bit short.
But at least I landed the skill shot!

So what did I get from all this? Was it just a moment for me to narcissistically enjoy undeserved semi-fame? Well, I think it's much more than that. Before this entire experience, I thought cosplay was exclusively withheld for pretty people with sewing skills - a higher calibre of person than me in every aspect. And without a doubt, there were a fair few of these types of people at the meet-up that looked remarkable. But the reason why cosplay is so cool is because it's all about the coming together and acceptance of one another. It's like automatic entry into the cool club - except this is the cool club you actually want to be a part of. We were gathered together because we all enjoyed something really nerdy, and we were embodying it in a way that is the most fun for us. And when it comes down to it, that's basically why any other type of club or social circle is formed: common passion. Except, I guess ours is a bit more extravagant.

I was extremely nervous and self-conscious about doing my first cosplay. Mine was nothing of the level that was present. But I would definitely do it again - but perhaps with a bit more oomph. The cosplayers at the meet-up weren't some judging panel on their high horses; they were just guys and girls that liked dressing up as their favourite characters - much like me. Underneath the helmets, make-up, and blood red contact lenses, they were just cool people. And I got the chance to be a part of that community in an instant - no questions asked.

This experience has been eye-opening for me; it really wasn't just a matter of dressing up. It's the idea of being celebrated and welcomed purely on the grounds of a common passion. I just don't think that's found too frequently. And frankly, I can't speak for all the cosplayers at the convention, but I can definitively tell all those reading this now that the League of Legends cosplayers at the October 2013 London MCM Comic Con were all friendly, energetic, awesome people. And I can't wait to see them all again next May.

Getting ready for a group shot

So, I guess that leaves the question: who to cosplay next?


*As a side note, I can't post this without giving a big shout-out and thank you to my friend whom I dragged along with me to this meet. Without her help, these photos would not exist, and she gave me the confidence and push to actually ask other cosplayers for photos. So thank you!

Should I Add My Children On Facebook?

To much dismay, I added my mum as a friend on Facebook a long time ago. On the verge of digital social suicide, I suppose it might not have been the wisest decision I've made, because let's face it - there's a lot to see there. There are pictures and videos no-one needs to see, least my own mother. But to be honest, if it's on the Internet already, it's not exactly hidden - so no loss there in my opinion.

But it does bring an interesting thought to mind: if and when I have my own children, should I add them on Facebook? Despite what you might be thinking, I'm not that concerned about what I may see on their profiles (like I can stop any of it), but I'm more worried about what they'll find on mine. Think about that for a second.

I've never really been able to imagine my parents before they were my parents. To me, they poofed into this universe as mature and responsible 30-year-olds. But I suppose that's not too uncommon a thought. I've never heard many childhood stories, or flipped through old black-and-white photo collections. As for me, one of my life aspirations is to become a dad, but considering the kid that I currently am, I find it odd to believe I might someday father and be responsible for a child. But surely by then I would've become a sensible and stern man, and my children will be none the wiser? Well, I'll still have my Facebook.

If you're my "Friend", then you'll know that I use my Facebook. A lot. Call it procrastination, but I like to think of it as a modern, digital photo book. When I feel my future children to be old enough, I'll add them. Then they can flip through my youth: the friends I made, the university years I spent, my first job, and everything in between. Sure, they'll laugh their asses off at my questionable fashion choices and even more questionable poses, but they might actually be surprised that at one point, I was a kid too (at least, I hope it'll be a surprise). It's an interesting thought that all of us on Facebook now are almost documenting our lives, like digital autobiographies with guest writers - virtual timelines (or rather, "Timelines") from start to finish.

Excuse the grim thought, but I think when I pass away, I'd like my Facebook profile presented to everyone at my memorial service (I assume it'll be on the iPad Nano 65GS or something). Then people can quite literally scroll through my entire life. Of course, the relationships I had shared with every person I'd met throughout my life would mean much more, but sometimes it's nice to look back and feel nostalgic about a photo you were tagged in.

So, as I share this blog post on Facebook, I wonder if I'll see the plan through, and if this very post will be read by my yet-to-be children. I used to think time capsules were the coolest things as a kid, but just too much of an effort to make and bury. But in a way, Facebook is my digital time capsule. I have so much more to experience in my life, but as my memory begins to fail me (it's not even doing that great a job currently), it'll be a neat way to just remind myself how fortunate I have been to already have experienced so much.

Ah, who am I kidding? I'm just giving myself an excuse to procrastinate on Facebook. Refreshing News Feed...

Talking To Myself, Part II: Letters

Previously, I had discussed the way in which I talk to myself, separating my emotional and logical faces, and attempting to resolve difficulties on my own. One of the inadequacies of this method is that I never have a real outlet for my feelings. The same thoughts circle my head, like a dog chasing its own tail, and I end up internalising the struggle. Granted, if I'm able to offer myself (or rather, uncover) some decent advice, all is well, and I've saved myself the trouble of explaining the dilemma to someone, and possibly becoming a burden. However, if I'm unable to untangle the conundrum on my own, I end up with two troubled people trapped in a locked room, both with no way to escape.

Not drawn by me

Writing is my best form of expression. I don't speak nearly as fluently, and I'm not really an 'actions-louder-than-words' type person. I've never found my singing or my dancing to be as descriptive, either. These are still ways I express my raw emotions, but they remain restrictive. With written words, I can craft. I can select specific synonyms that are closest to how I truly feel, I can control the flow and tone to mimic my internal journey, and most importantly, I'm not afraid when I write. 

So in some of my darkest times, I write letters - times like the one I am going through now. Most of my problems involve another party, so I'll usually address the letter to them, almost like a confession. If you're pretty close to me, chances are we've had our obstacles, and chances are I've written you a letter you will never read. Even if my letter has no addressee (I employ "Dear You" when my dilemma involves no-one else, but this is rather rare), the objective is the same: to have an outlet to get everything out of my system.

It's very important to realise at this point that I've never sent any of these letters. I do however write letters that I do go on to send whenever something is too difficult to say all in one go. But the ones in this context are locked away in my hard drive, never to be read - not even by me. It would probably help my situations a lot more if I let my addressees actually read the letters, but it would cripple the freedom of being completely raw and honest. I never edit, rewrite or read over - I just write, and write, and write, until I have nothing left to say, to the ends of emotional and physical exhaustion.

Writing one of these letters is sickeningly draining. As I tear my head open, I have to try and capture everything onto (digital) paper as my thoughts uncontrollably surge out. I never want to write them, and the process is far from relieving or relaxing. There's really nothing Zen about it. So why do I do it? To me, these words are like poison, and left in my system, circulating my brain, would devour me inside out. Most people talk things out - I extract feelings through a gaping wound.

So why do I still feel like I'm trapped alone in my dark room? I have my outlet, so surely all that pain should be exiting. Truth of the matter is, my addressees never write back. I can scream and shout all I want into this endless cave, but as much as I hope it, I will never hear a voice of answer come back. I've said all I can say, and yes, it's off my chest - but where from does the resolution come?

I'm learning these few days that these letters do me no good. The silence is painfully gruelling, and gnawing at my sanity. I have merely extended my capacity to hold onto these pains. They may have left my fingertips, but these pages upon pages of my emotions linger on in my hard drive - and they remain unresolved. There are plenty of bytes to burn, but how much more room does my heart have left?

I don't know when I'll learn to open up again. For someone that has "be open and honest" as a mantra, I sure suck at it when things get grim. And I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps I've been in this dark room alone with myself for far too long. It's a very, very dark room indeed, and I'm so petrified of it, that I fear to let anyone in to see. So will I continue to sit alone in that room and write these letters, before sending them into the abyss? Yes, most probably, out of habit if anything. But more crucially, will I learn to let someone open the door, come in, and share my feelings so that I can finally have an outlet that reciprocates? I really don't know.

At least with this piece of writing, I'm allowed to edit.

Talking To Myself

"Hey... What's up?"

"Ah, it's nothing."

"It's not nothing. You can't lie to me, I know something's wrong. What's up?"

[Sigh] "I'm facing this dilemma. I have feelings for this girl, but she doesn't reciprocate. So now I feel like crap on a stick."

"Okay, so what's the dilemma?"

"What do you mean? I just told you. I got my heart broken."

"Right, right. Boo hoo. But where's the dilemma? A dilemma would imply you have a difficult decision to make. And it seems to me, there's no decision to be made. It has already been made for you."

"I suppose..."

"I mean, honestly, what are your choices? To mope around, or to move on? C'mon, that's no choice at all. So it's going to suck balls right now, but then you will move on. So move on."

"I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm you."

As of late, I have these moments where I'm very silent and just keep to myself, and more so than before. I just stop and stare blankly ahead. To most, it looks like I'm bored or spaced out. For those that know me well enough, they'll realise I'm just not there in the room any more - I'm in my head, talking to myself.

Putting aside the possibility I may have a split personality and I'm about to go all Two-Face on everyone ("You either die a hero..."), it's a part of my resolutions to be more independent (as opposed to being more psychopathic). Entering into a more mature stage of my life, I felt the need to be more in control of my moods, to be confident at crossroads, and to be able to wade through the crap life throws at me. And so now, when faced with struggles, I go into my head, and materialise the conversation - with myself.

I suppose the idea came from the fact that I've always tried very hard to support my friends in their times of need. Sometimes, I'm able offer a different angle with practical advice, and other times, I just offer a shoulder to lean on. It's a rewarding feeling to know that you are helping those you care about, and a trait of the person I aspire to be. Also, with an outside perspective, things often become a lot clearer: it's funny how logic just goes out the window when emotions come into play.

For example (and as is mostly the case), my friends might come to me with relationship worries. And whenever I give a seemingly ground-breaking piece of advice, it's really not that great at all - I have no big secret. Most relationship problems I have been presented with fall under a few common areas of trouble: distance (physical and emotional), trust issues, mismatch of life priorities, and a general lack of mutual give-and-take. And my solutions are pretty much always along the lines of communication, balance, and honesty. Surprise, surprise: relationships are between two people. And what links two people together? Communication, in whatever form it may take - so talk it out. But what if arguments arise because the two parties want different things? Compromise and balance. Meet each other halfway, at a point where you can both give a little and receive a little. And if one person is hiding a feeling that is troubling them? Be honest. If the two people are right for each other, and it's a relatively mature relationship, they will reach an understanding - if they are open about it. But even I think this last one is stretching it a little - I could probably group 'honesty' under 'communication' as well. So maybe I just have two keys to success. But what would I know? I'm no relationship guru. My point being is that I usually just apply logic to the relationship woes of my friends, and more often than not, it comes out as sound advice. 

So, back to the original point, why not be my own best friend (apart from how sad it sounds to say that aloud)? If it's simple advice I'm looking for, I have all the logic and common sense I could need. In fact, we all do. We can all argue and discuss with reason - we do it all the time. And boiled down, most dilemmas come down to the fact that you must make a difficult decision. You just need to a) assess what your choices are, b) list the reasons for choosing and not choosing each, and finally c) as a result, make the most reasonable decision, given the circumstances. If your struggle doesn't even require a decision to be made (like the above conversation I had with myself quite some time ago), then all the better - you have nothing to think about. All you do is just let it happen to you. So now all I need to face any problem in my life is just a quiet moment for me to clone myself and tell myself things I already know, right?

I probably come off as a smart-ass right now. But the matter of fact is, I don't have all the answers. And even if I did, so what? I'm not superhuman, and I still succumb to emotions, however hard I try to distant it from my logic. Ultimately, I'm just as hopeless and pathetic as any lovers' woe. And I'm starting to re-learn that that's okay. I thought the mature thing to do is to deal with 'petty' feelings with reason and a common sense approach. And that's what I tried to do in the above situation. But the truth of the matter is that I'm pretty weak - and it turns out that adults can actually be weak too. As much as I want others to be able to lean on me, I need friends to lean on too. None of them are lesser than me, and if anything, I'm positive that most of my friends are better people than I am. So maybe the real mature thing to do is to learn to open back up and reconnect, and realise that it's okay to feel vulnerable and stupid sometimes.

After all, who said emotions were logical?

Racist Or Xenophobic: A Bus Stop Encounter

Speaking to strangers is one of those things I just don't do very well. Basically, if I don't know you or have any prerequisite information about you, I will instantaneously acquire a speech impediment and be unable to form comprehensible sentences. So you can imagine my horror when whilst waiting for the bus to work this rainy morning, a stranger approached me.

And strange he was. This scruffy, unshaven man in his late forties was hobbling over, smoking a cigarette and wearing army attire (why do the strangest people always wear camouflage?). I was plugged into my music, and casually checking the time, before he said something that required me to pull away from Katy Perry's Roar (I'm fabulous):

"'Ave you been waiting long?"

"Just a few minutes. The bus should be here in about five, though."

So far, so good. I was trying to be helpful. But of course, this is the logical question that follows:

"Where you from? China, or Japan?"

Now, ignoring the fact that he so rudely and abruptly demanded me to declare my nationality (maybe the UK has now implemented border control at bus stops, too?), why have I suddenly entered Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and used my 50/50, so that I may only choose from two answers? Can I phone a friend on this one?

"China." 

If you're only going to give me the choice of either being Chinese or Japanese, I'm not even going to bother explaining my dual Hong Kong-British nationality - that'd be as complicated as explaining Wolverine's origins. But yes, I am Chinese, so to speak. That I'm not denying, nor ashamed of.

To my one-worded response, this man grunted and rolled his eyes, as if I had picked the worse of the two options (perhaps he was right. Maybe I SHOULD be Japanese instead. That's how it works, right? I just magically transform into another form of Asian? It's like evolving Eevee with a different Evolution Stone).

"What you doin' here?"

I was about to inject a diversion into the situation by saying "waiting for the bus", but before I could even say anything:

"Why are you in England? Isn't China doing really well?"

It was at this point I realised this was going to be a long five minutes. I didn't need this first thing in the morning, before my morning cup of tea (no sugar, if you were wondering). And so I thought I'd give my last response to this interrogation, before proceeding to the next chorus of Roar:

"I was born here, and I live here. My parents are from China." 

Side note: also not precisely true, but pretty close, as they are from Hong Kong. But at this point, if I said the words "Hong Kong", I'm thinking he's imagining I originated from the belly of a giant ape that scaled the Empire State Building. But I was in fact born in Nottingham (grew up in Hong Kong), and I do now live in London.

And again, he seemed disgruntled at this answer - angry, even. Is there an answer booklet? I'd like to see where I am losing my marks for this exam. I really would like to pass.

But I was already plugged back in and hoping that Katy's voice will not only summon courage within me, but also a bus, three minutes earlier than scheduled (I was counting down). But lo, the questioning wasn't over it seems, as he kept talking, and was motioning for my attention. Normally, I would ignore such a person and just keep listening to my music, but he was walking towards me, so I decided to just hear him out before he came within touching proximity (ewww):

"Really, why are you even here? I hear things are fine in China. Why aren't you there?"

Oh no, not this question again! I already gave a poor answer last time, is this my second chance to correct myself? D, I choose D! And that's my final answer!

But there was no multiple choice this time, so I just gave the first answer that came to mind: "Here's better, I guess."

Flattery towards your country, is that going to work then? Apparently not, according to the gritting of his teeth. I'd like elaborate here that what I meant was that London is a better place to get career experience in English copywriting. That's what I had in mind, but I'm sure this point would've flown over this man's head, much like general manners.

"Huh. 'Here's better'."

Again, I plugged back in, but paused the music just to be more cautious (Katy can wait). But by then, he was so close to me, he was able to purposefully blow smoke in my direction. Now, the questioning - fine; I can muster a few words whilst I wait in the rain. But I am NOT about to smell like Satan's bumhole for the rest of the day because this stranger feels my answers to be inadequate. So I shuffle away from his emissions and turn away - I wasn't even going to bother trying to tell him to stop.

And so I thought that was that. To my surprise, it seems that I had transformed into the Joker, and I had not yet told this Dark Knight where Rachel is, so the interrogation must continue:

"Where you headin'? College, or work?"

50/50, again! Why can't I be heading off to slay a fire-breathing dragon? By now, I figured which answer would've best pleased him, but screw it:

"Work. I'm going to work." 

And then this answer really ticked him off. I had committed the unforgivable sin of being employed and working for a salary - I'm such a downright scoundrel. In fact, had I not applied and got this position as Marketing Executive at this online company, I'm sure he was next in consideration. His CV and interview skills must've been equally impressive. Damn me and my job-thieving intentions. So I surely must've deserved the following line, spat under his foul breath:

"Go back to where you belong..."

I decided to end the conversation here. This time I really was going to plug in and ignore him. Only a minute left before I can leave this horrible predicament. I could see from the corner of my eye that he was agitatedly jabbering away still. I walked further away and mentally shooed him off.

So there we were: me, begging for the 142 to come around the corner, and him, furious as to why I wasn't immediately buying a one-way ticket to Beijing on my phone (I really should take my British passport with me out more often, so I can prove my nationality and be ready to deport myself at Heathrow a.s.a.p.).

What happened next was probably better than the bus arriving though. Two lovely ladies came to the bus stop, probably heading off to work too - and both wearing hijabs. You could see the man literally shift aside at their approach, followed by another troll-like grunt. Picture it: the uncomfortable and aggressive self-nominated immigration officer was suddenly the minority under this bus shelter.

A lengthy ten seconds later, finally the 142 had arrived. I let the two ladies onto the bus first, and as Sir Smokesalot was standing closer to its entrance (and this being the only bus that comes by this stop), I motioned for him to get on before me:

"After you." Pro tip: being extra polite to someone that is rude really annoys them.

To this, he shook his head, sneered at me and turned around. Oh well. Some of us have work to get to. So I hopped onto the bus and thanked Katy for telling me I'm a champion. As I looked out of the window, I had noticed that Mr. Grumpy (not to be confused with Grumpy Cat - she's much nicer) was still standing under the bus shelter, most likely waiting for the next bus. It seems the one I was on was heading to Shanghai (I hope I have enough on my Oyster card). But all the better - he can stay in the rain. I don't want him on my bus anyway.

Now, having told the entire story, I feel a little better. Scathing sarcasm posted online without one's knowledge is my way of fighting back (non-confrontational, much?). Was I offended? Yes, a little. But he's not worth the thought, so I ushered him out of my head until I decided to write this post. And it's not like he did very much towards me. Petty racism is something I've learnt to deal with growing up. I know there are much more severe racial injustices around the world than just bus stop interrogations, so I hate to admit it still irks me a bit.

But I do have a question at the end of all this: do you think he's racist, or xenophobic? As very basic definitions, racism is the hatred or discrimination of others based only on the irrational grounds of their race, skin colour, or culture, and xenophobia is the fear of the foreign and the unknown. Was he spewing his questions because he hated me for my ethnic background, or did he actually fear the unknown factor derived from a heritage different from his? But hey! This isn't Who Wants To Be A Millionaire - maybe he's neither, and there's a third option. I'm not going to put you under the same rules.

Who am I kidding? It must've been because he's not a Katy Perry fan.

Excuses, Excuses

This is a blog post. And it is published.

Prior to starting this blog, I was very self-aware that I would leave it unattended, like a neglectful father (see - my metaphors come full circle). This may seem like the present state, but trust me: I'm constantly thinking about this thing. That's why there are three drafts sitting in the backseat of my blog, ready to go. I had written them over the past week or so, but never had the courage to click on the ever-so-daunting 'Publish' button, part of the reason being two of said drafts include quite personal and embarrassing recent experiences. I want to share them, but I don't know if that's the best idea for me or my (few) readers. But mostly, I think it's because I wasn't in the mood at the time (I hope this doesn't become something I hear constantly later in life). It was how I felt whilst writing it, but come the moment to actually share it, I wasn't feeling it anymore and just couldn't do it. And I don't know if I ever will. But what I do know is that I want to stop making excuses. I want to write what I publish, and publish what I write, because that's what I set out to do with this blog - for people to read my content. 

So, in the swing of today's theme - 'Full Of Excuses' - I decided to tell an anecdote. Enjoy.

---

I had a friend at boarding school that, for all intents and purposes of this story, was not exactly a hard-working student. Great guy - but not the most studious, by any stretch of the definition.

We were in a couple of classes together back in the day of GCSE's, one of them being French (yes - I studied French for three years, and to this day, if I'm ever in France, I'll only ever be able to ask where the swimming pool or the library is). Now, essays were pretty much the norm when it came to homework, and I'd always hash them out as soon as possible, being the boring goody-two-shoes that I was. My friend on the other hand, wouldn't give it a fleeting thought until the night before it was due.

But he was never worried - he always had an excuse ready in his back pocket. In fact, I think he took delight in the numerous ways he was able to get out of doing French essays in particular, because our teacher was notably stringent when it came to deadlines.

And so we were in the same computer room one evening before one such deadline: me double-checking my future perfect tense, and him, staring at a blank Word document with an equally blank expression.

"Would you like some help with your essay?" (Side note: yes, I was THAT kid at school.)

He then stared at me for a moment, before he eureka-ed his way to an epiphany.

"Nah, that's all right. I just came up with something really good."

I then proceeded to watch him not eloquently write an entire French essay from memory, but instead Google and download a random Chinese font.

"Why on earth are you..."

"Oh, you'll see. This might be my best yet..."

He then continued to mash the keyboard with his palm, making sure to hit the space bar at regular intervals, like some blind four-year-old learning to play the piano, until he had filled an entire page on his Word document with nonsensical Chinese characters.

"Does that make any sense to you, Lawrence?"

"Um. No, not at all"

"Didn't think so!"

Saved. Closed. Done. And he left the room.

Come the next day in French class, the teacher was asking for our homework in. I handed her my triple-checked essay before she reached my friend's desk, where she saw that, for once, he wasn't empty-handed. He presented her with a thumbdrive, before explaining that he was unable to print out his essay because the ink from the printer in the computer room ran out. However, he was smart enough to save it on the USB so he could print it in class on her computer. How the teacher didn't wonder why I was able to produce a perfectly printed essay even though we were in the same boarding House, I'll never know. But I guess I'm nitpicking here, as I'm sure she was just surprised that he was promising some sort of completed work right then and there.

At this point, I guess it's worth noting that my then French teacher was not the most technically-minded person. But she knew how to work a USB into the computer and opened up the sole file in it. My friend gave me cheeky glance, as a precurse to the following scene that he had staged.

"��� ��������

�� ��� ��� ������ ��� ���� ����� ��� �� ����� ��� ������ �� ������ ������ ��� ���� ������ ��� �� �� �� ������ �� � ���� �� �� � ��� ���� � ����������� �� �� �� ����� ��� ����� � ����� �� ���� ��� �����  ����"

A look of bewilderment came across the teacher's face, as her version of Word failed to recognise all the Chinese that my friend had so thoughtfully typed out:

"Um. Okay. Could you come take a look at this? I don't know what's gone wrong."

My friend promptly walked up to her computer at the front of the room, just as curious as to what the problem was.

"Okay, so I opened up the document titled 'Mes Vacances', but all that comes up are these odd squares."

What followed was the most impressive piece of acting I have ever witnessed:

"Um... Wow. I really don't know what went wrong there. I swear I saved my essay just as it was. This is really strange. Don't know why it's gone and done that. I'm really sorry - I really did try to get this in on time today. I was working on it just last night. I didn't think there was anything wrong with it, and it definitely looks like it's all there... But it's all messed up..." 

His improv was on point - sincerely apologetic, with a slight tone of worry and concern for the safety of his non-existent efforts. And it worked like a charm.

"Oh, not to worry. It's not your fault. I'm sure you worked very hard to get this in on time. It's all right - you can just print it when your House's printer is working again. You can hand it in then."

My mind = blown.

My friend proudly waltzed back to his desk next to me, with a confident look on his face like he just pulled off the heist from Ocean's Eleven. The fact that he had the foresight that our teacher wouldn't figure out to just change the font of all his gibberish to decipher it on her computer, that he had an eye for the minute detail of titling his document correctly in French, and his flawless (and possibly rehearsed) performance to draw sympathy from an otherwise strict teacher that didn't have him in her good books, was ingenious.

And so, three days later, my friend asked if he could use my essay as a guideline for his. He wasn't worried that the teacher would find the two pieces similar - after all, she would've read so many between his and mine, she'd never be able to tell. Or so that's what he told me. I was convinced. Heck, I was so impressed by his con, I wouldn't have mind just writing a new one for him.

Sadly, he didn't get a great grade on that piece of homework. Somehow in the midst of his interpretation of mine, something had gone awry. But at least he handed something in that was in the relevant foreign language.

---

So I guess the moral of the story is, if you're going to make up an excuse, put the same amount of thought into it as it would've taken to actually do the work in the first place. Or maybe just do the work. That applies to both parts of this post. Writing this 'excuse' probably took just as much effort as any of my other unpublished posts. Maybe I should've just clicked the 'Publish' button on them after all.

Oddly enough, with that acting talent, I wonder sometimes why my friend didn't get perfect grades in Drama. But then again, it's probably because he never handed in any homework on time.

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!