Yes yes, for those who bother to ask, I haven't had my hair cut yet. Eight months and counting.

Really tired. My right arm hurts too much. Can't type much. Strained. But making money. That's all that matters right?

You know about the rules of life, don't you? Certain very fundamental rules that piss you off, like how g = 9.81 m/s or you can't travel faster than the speed of light or how computers built to be infallible would ultimately fail and be unfixable.

There are rules of life. Rules.

You would think that once unleashed from these rules, you'd break them in ways possible. Just because they used to be rules. Just because you can break them now. That's always how it is, you only break rules, because it is fun to break rules, you break rules to reaffirm that you are bigger than these rules.

But these are rules of life. You are forever chained to these rules. Binded, shackled, crippled. You will never break them. Because you are part of life. And yet you try. Just like Arthur Dent who manages to throw himself at the ground and miss, you try. Because life is a game, if you can't play by the rules, you gotta break the rules and make your own.

I had an epiphany yesterday and now it's gone.

For those following this blog, like there actually is anyone, yuo may think I am in an epiphanic mood. I just think there something in the water that brings on epiphanies, unlike New York water. Or maybe it's just the place.

Anyway, my epiphany was about something to do with regrets and growing up. I was thinking that the more grown up I am, the less regrets I would have. So I suppose as I become more ancient, mature as some people would euphemistically put it, I would commit less regretable actions. I suppose that's something to look forward to.

I kinda like roadtrips. It's a chance to speed off into the sunset. Or sunrise. Or get terribly sunburnt on my right hand, which still (!#@()&-ing hurts up to now. And I kinda like trudging through dense jungles and thick ferns through unblazed areas, where no human has walked before. I kinda like long walks through the forest, and arriving at a cool clear stream which I can jump in and cool off. I kinda like standing on the road side, gazing at the mountains and spying a waterfall somewhere up there in the hills. And it kinda breaks my heart that the waterfall isn't accessible. It's all about going somewhere, going someplace, seeing new things, and doing stuff that people like me only know how to read about and forgot how to do. I suppose I want to journey someplace far. I think I shall visit a national park soon.

But that aside, I was watching the Monaco Grand Prix until the 39th lap, when I had to go watch Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. Decisions, decisions. I missed one of the most exciting races ever, and well... I am disappointed I missed the end. But I feel that I can drive as well as any of them, including Schumacher, so if you ever see a white BMW streaking down the road, and overtaking four cars, and weaving in and out of traffic, be sure to wave hi.

And speaking of speed, the latest Star Wars movie was a movie on amphetamines. Sure it was fast-paced, action-packed and drug-doped, but it hardly gave chance to build up an atmosphere, the most it ever did was allude to the future episodes in increasingly ironic statements. It was fast, damn fast. And I'm disappointed in General Grievious. I would have thought he would have put up more of a fight. After all, four lightsabers vs one lightsaber? Do the math. As for the final movie ever made for the entire Star Wars series? It wasn't a grandeur burst of cinematography, but at least it didn't go away with a miserable whimper of failure. I suppose it deserves two cheers. One because it's the end. Two because it didn't suck.

Star Wars Episode III Revenge of the Sith is out.

Hmm... the geek in me calls. I think I shall respond in turn. Hmm... wonder where is a good bit torrent site?

I haven't been blogging since. I suppose I am somewhat tired, I blame the time difference and the jetlag, but then again it's my fault for going so far.

I've learnt recently that there are things that can change, things that can't change, and things that will never change. I've been back for almost a week, and nothing back here has changed. The roads wind the same way, the people are as laid back as ever and my Streamyx connection still disconnects me periodically to remind me constantly that I am in Malaysia and not New York anymore.

Everyone wants to live in the past, everyone wants to be young again, reliving the past. I wonder that is because being young is truly being happy, or whether it is because we are not as aware of everything that is around us right now? Could nothing have changed since then but ourselves? I try not to think that is the case, because if so, then everything remains immutable.

Maybe that's why Malaysia remains developing, Singapore remains rigid and America remains decadent.

I try not to think that the environment is in stasis. That would mean that living now is the same as living in the past, as in the future. Take today, multiply to infinity, and that would be the rest of my life simplistically reduced to my actions today. One man cannot change the world, I've come to realise the full extent of futility. So if environments don't change, and I don't find myself at peace with where I am, and it doesn't matter when I am, so maybe it is time to move on. To look for someplace that I could live.

What kind of place am I looking for? I don't know, but I will when I see it.

You know, 20 hour plane rides really suck ass...

But I'm back in town.

Now's a great time to blog. You see, I'm sitting on the floor amidst my mess, munching on some Oreos and having some trouble packing. I am currently waiting for some brilliant scientist to invent a box which basically warps the space-time continuum within it so that I could fit in my computer, printer, guitar, clothes, loads of junk, food, more junk, insane amounts of junk, coils and coils and coils of wire, and my huge-assed tv into a nice little one-by-one-by-one box. But until then, I have to suffer the consequences of picking up too much sh*t. It's quite a picture, I assure you, a hunched kid peering over his monitor and computer which is on the floor, typing away with the keyboard on his lap. I suppose this is how things are going to be, especially since I really hate moving and packing. However, the prospects of going to a new place, or even going home excite me very much. After all, perhaps now this is my time of vacation.

I suppose that since I've been in America for seven months, I should be providing some sort of summary, comment or just ranting about the place. Hmm... I'm thirsty, I think I shall sneak downstairs for a drink.

Okay, after a one hour hiatus where I invaded someone else's room and as usual made some noise and then I vanished without a trace. Somehow, I don't really feel that sad about parting with all these people. It's not because I don't like them. It's more probably because well, some day, I'll see them again. Seven months ago, I saw my mom and sisters crying when they saw me off at the airport. I don't cry, I don't shed a tear, sadness isn't just worth it. But I actually asked them, "Why are you crying?" I'm still here. Perhaps, I shall never understand the true value of parting. But you see, there's a little magic, in parting with the people you love. That little magic lies in the happiness in knowing that you are going to see them again soon. There are no one way roads (or New York roads where all the roads are one way), but all roads do indeed lead home, and it is only a matter of time and will that I inevitably find myself at the doorstep of my house, heaving a sigh of relief, and that I am home.

It's over, it's over, it's over, it's over, it's over.

You may think it's not over, but it's over. It was over a long time ago, and it is still over and done with.

Hmm... It's over. What now?

I just had an epiphany!

No, nothing destructive this time. I just met a kid from Columbia last night, and he told me that apparently Harvard, Princeton and Yale waive tuition fees for students whose combined family income is less than USD40,000. I qualify for that. Hell yeah I do. The only problem with my qualification is that I'm not in Harvard, Princeton or Yale. I'm in NYU.

You see, that really sucks for me. Especially because the college publication just had a long series of articles about how NYU students have to haul a hefty student loan debt back home to be framed right next to their college degree. So it kinda sucks, that I have to be among these people with a huge loan. It doesn't make sense! Those universities can waive fees for poor students and why not NYU? After all NYU is rich, right?

That's where you're wrong! NYU apparently has measly alumni donations, and well, it's disgusting as a dude on my floor was telling me how posh the dean's office looked with nice chandeliers and everyone has to dress formally, even the average poor student who works there. And the administrators often have hefty bills for whatever meetings, or jaunts, or whatever they have in expensive hotels and stuff. So yeah, basically the administrators are like the bourgeosie elite and the students are the proletariat. Or the student's parents. And none of the alumni wants to give to NYU because NYU has treated them so bad in the past. And now they are treating me bad by not giving me necessary financial aid. Trust me, I need it. So in all, it becomes a vicious cycle.

In fact, it has become so bad, that my neighbor said that NYU called her mom to ask for donations. Hell, she's not even graduated from that place and they are asking for money already! What the hell?

Anyway, my epiphany is that they are asking the wrong people for money. They shouldn't be asking the alumni or parents of current students. It's like asking money for a bad service, and I think it just sucks that my fees are so high. I feel that it is important that NYU must show some sort of justification for it's hefty budget and insanely high tuition fees. But anyway, the thing is, NYU must ask the Olsen twins for money! Why else would the Olsen twins come to NYU on such bad SAT scores?

Okay, I'm not sure whether they have good SAT scores or not, but coke snorting must have some negative effect on the brain, else all the parents of Asian kids would be drug dealers for the sake of getting them into Harvard, Princeton or Yale. But thing is, the Olsen twins should pay for my school fees. After all, they're rich, I'm poor, they don't need it, I do, and my education is probably worth less than the cars they drive, much less the fortune they own. So how about it? I should draft a letter to them right now. Posting it here later.

I haven't slept the night, and here I am, at 6:45am awaiting my Calculus 3 exam. Perhaps I am just plain insane, but there's a sort of terror in the heart awaiting impending doom and failure. Or perhaps the mind has earmarked the 8th hour as some sort of momentuous occasion which it awaits with great apprehension and fear. And there is a nervousness in the gut, definitely not caused by over-consumption of Red Bull. The sun has long risen, and technically a new day has begun. But my days and nights are no longer what it used to be, day, night, interchangable, where I don't know what is what anymore.

I sit down here thinking a bit. I have been reading through my blog archives. I always do that, hoping to read something new and interesting. Kinda ironic isn't it? But perhaps there is something I hope to be reminded of. Somewhere along the journey, one becomes disillusioned and hurt, and things never turn out the way one hopes. So one has to turn to one's own memories to find that dream again, for a small chance, an opportune moment to feel happy. And once that moment has been found, remembered and grasped for eternity, wouldn't that mean that eternal happiness has been found?

Sometimes I just sit in front of the computer and pound out words on the keyboard, hoping that it'll take me someplace. Like suddenly an interesting thought pops to mind, and the great answer (Fourty Two) is discovered. But then again, this introspection is bad for my mental health. You think too much.

I guess I'm just confused. It is easy to get confused, when I'm so out of touch with reality, and I take things for granted. It doesn't take much to confuse me. Come to think of it, a lot of things do confuse me. Just like when I don't understand how A = B or some really complicated mathematical formula. Just like how the hell do I do closed integrals? Maybe my mind has taken a leave of absense for a few years, and I don't know what the hell I am doing. Anyway, I guess I'm here to stay in the fairy tale land of confusion.

I don't know what I want anymore. Really, a fast car, or a million bucks, perhaps my apathy has sunk so deep that I just couldn't be bothered with most of these things. I think it is really hard to get on with life if I don't know what I'm here to do. Kinda like the passion for life just fizzled out a long time ago, just like a flat Coke, and you can't put the fizz back in it.

I guess I really need a vacation. But the question remains, a vacation from what?

Busy.

No not that kind of busy.

I think this is my third post today, and I shall dedicate this post to Ivan with great hopes that I shall infuriate him and irritate him to the best of my ability.

Also I feel that today is the best time to do such a thing because, today, I had my last statistics and multiple regression class, and there is somehow a little sadness in my heart, because I no longer get to behold the object of desire in that class.

Yes, yes, I know what that means, there's a hot chick in that class and I enjoy staring at her, given my vantage point where I sit in the extreme left side of the class, with my back to the wall, and gazing upon the rest of the class, I always spy her sitting on the other side of the classroom, with her hand up, waving and asking questions. She's not exactly a dumb person or a slow student, she just seems full of questions, and naturally my attention would, as would the attention of the class, turn to the person who ask these questions.

I never bothered to walk over to the other side of class to chat her up with one of my witty pick-up lines ("What's the probability of finding a hot chick like you in a class like this?") and I am already fixed in my ways of being last into class and first out of class. But anyway, perhaps I spend the happiest part of my Monday/Wednesday afternoons staring at her, more because she asks a lot of questions, but I don't mind. I'm kinda sad that she never directs her questions at me, but then again hey, when I wear a "Don't f*ck with me" look on my face, I doubt people would want to risk talking to me.

Anyway, yeah, there's a hot chick in my class, and I bet you guys are wondering what does this have to do with Ivan, or what is the point of me telling this, or how I would insult Ivan in the first place. You see, this chick's name is Veronica, at least I think that was her name. And apparently, she looks so damn familiar. Really really familiar. Come to think of it, she looks like Ivan's sister, Sopphia.

I hate it when chatterbox goes down. At least it was better than tagboard. They screwed me over by having illegal irritating pop-ups and they shall pay with the souls of their first-born!

I was thinking that perhaps it is time I get myself a new camera. I seriously need one. Coz when was the last time any self-respecting blogger did not have any interesting pictures on their blog. Look, after all isn't it common sense? Words are hard to read, and you gotta have a really big name like Thomas Friedman before people would actually take your words for granted.

That said, I wonder how many people actually bother sifting through the great debris of words here. Though I have a lot to rant about, seriously I need a camera, because I just need one. I seem to miss certain interesting situations which I felt could be so appropriately expounded on visual media. Poignant photos or candid shots. There are so many interesting moments, that just passes by fleetingly, with nothing but a poor old man's memory to recollect in the distant future.

I guess the urge to take photos is a semi-desperate attempt to preserve the past. Like taking photographs and stealing memories away from death's briefcase in an attempt to keep some part from just fading away into the past. Maybe it is to come to terms with my own mortality, maybe I can just somehow keep some things alive through a camera. After all, a camera steals your soul ala Fatal Frame II: Crimson Butterfly, and imprisons it for eternity. Then again when faced with the fleeting breath of life, being stuck on film for eternity might not be such a bad alternative.

First, I suppose, I need money. Then I'm gonna get myself a nice Canon Digital Rebel.

Momma I'm coming home,
To a silent house,
Filled with angry voices.
I'm coming back to,
A cold room and stale air,
Musty memories and an empty photo frame.
There's nothing left here,
The day I packed up and went away,
And nothing leads to nothing,
I find the hollow nothingness of home.
You know, what's the point?
Of going home when there's no difference,
Between here and there,
I'm just stuck in the middle of nowhere.

I need a vacation. A vacation from life.

Someone put this idea into my head, and I strongly believe that he should be held responsible for whatever irrational action that I am about to take.

I was wondering how to take a vacation from life, when I realise that what I really need is a near-death experience. Yeah, I'm feeling kinda suicidal right now.

So I think the first thing I would like to do is snowboarding. Yeah, it's the perfect suicidal thing to do. Zooming down an icy slope at high speed and risking my neck literally, it is almost certain guarantee for some sort of injury, especially for one as inexperienced and suicidal as me.

Anyway, I had to scrap that vacation plan because I'm missing a mountain.

I need a bike. One of those 1000cc ones. I have a friend with a Kawasaki ZXR and he showed me some pictures. I need a bike like that. It's not as comfortable as a car, but the cool factor is way up there alongside the potential death factor. And I guess there is nothing like falling off a piece of machinery at 200km/h and rolling a few times over the gravel and scuffing your brains on the sidewalk.

Current life status, extreme dissatisfaction.
Cure, extreme sports.