move over, Satan, meet the DS

I’ve purchased a Shifty Nifty Cartridge (name has been changed to protect its identity) for my Nintendo DS which allows me to download games and play them. It’s been one day, and I’ve been alternating between over ten games; my eyes burn and my soul now has weird pockmarks in the shape of red Nintendo logos; my heart THROBS to the beat of the Pokemon Ranger soundtrack.

And I know it’s a nice day and I should be out meeting friends and giving hearty high-fives, instead of clamming up and having a Geek Day on a perfect Tuesday – but believe me, it’s not for lack of trying.

“what? it’s trueeeeeeee!”

matthew says: (2:09:58 AM)
oh yeah, we’re supposed to sleep
matthew says: (2:10:03 AM)
we need to have a reluctant parting
matthew says: (2:10:06 AM)
like bella and edward
Nicole says: (2:10:13 AM)
O:
matthew says: (2:10:14 AM)
BELLA!!
Nicole says: (2:10:20 AM)
ewwww
Nicole says: (2:10:25 AM)
stop calling me bellaaaa
matthew says: (2:10:30 AM)
what would edward say?
matthew says: (2:10:39 AM)
um, “blah blah blah I’m hot and sexy and I glitter”

truly an ASEAN restaurant

I quit Laotian Express on Tuesday, a month after having joined, seven actual working days, 48.5 shit-filled hours (almost literally) and $232.80 for my efforts.

It’s been quite a ride, and rather interesting because you see someone new every day, same age but vastly disparate backgrounds. Most of us wanting to earn just a little bit of pocket money, some of us probably needing that money for slightly more pressing family reasons.

There are three full-time Filipino workers to the dozen local workers, and the Filipinos amongst the nicest and most approachable. I find it a little sad that we need foreigners to teach us Thank You and Please and How’s Your Day Been.

I think the best thing about this job is that while I’m happy at finally getting to resign, I don’t regret the experience too much. I have learnt how to serve without ever getting thanked. I have learnt how bleeding difficult it is to earn $4.80. I have learnt how to place seven cups on a small tray more suited for five; on the first day I started precariously with four. I have learnt how to endure a kitchen with poisonous cough-inducing fumes and I have learnt how to get food and soup and grime on my hands without instantly heading to the sink.

I think literally every exploit I’ve gotten myself into in December has been that of serving people. My two jobs, my ice-breaking dayz of Rhema Conference, the kitchen saikang I did in preparation for the Christmas Eve extended family gathering. And I have learnt that sometimes the best things you take away from something aren’t the ones people know of.

baubles <3

Merry Christmas, readers!

Homely looking tree!

no, that’s not the sound of my conscience

RI(S) is over, and still we’re never going to give him a break.

there’s something wrong when Bella’s the hottest one

Twilight the movie was an eye-opener of sorts. I mean, most bad movies cover up their bad plot and everything else with a posse of hot actors.

Twilight didn’t even TRY. Jessica (one of the various extras in the ensemble of Random Non-Vampiric Schoolmates Who Like To Band Together And Do Healthy Normal Things Like Hang Out At The Beach And Recite Lame Jokes To Bella; not a very effective ensemble, I might say) has a vague hamster-like look on her face, and fat flaily arms. Edward looked normal only from certain angles, a privilege not even afforded to Jacob (I didn’t know werewolves were synonymous with black hippies). The random narration (repeating chunks of Meyer’s masterful narrative) was a cheap way of filling in the gaps between the stilted love-making and action that bored me to sleep – and I think I’ve run out of clever sounding invectives, so I’ll settle for less. Twilight was a SUPER SONIC FAIL, and as much I’d hate to say this, the book was infinitely better.

Twihard? I’m not even Twisoft.

the forgettable scent of bandwagon

Hi, my name is Matthew and I am 16.

I AM TWIHARD AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.

Now, if Nicole could only lend me the second book so I know what the hell happens.

underneath his beard so snowy white

I’m very tired, and there’s really no greater illustration of me coming of age. Before the 24th I spent the days on the computer, getting myself hooked on Flash games that ultimately had no lasting or attractive value, but since then I’ve had two jobs, few free days and a million people I’ve wanted to spend them with, to little avail. If you’ve been in my life since I turned 16, I thank you. I also thank the many visitors to the humble Tangs basement because while I’m not paid to socialise, keeping alive definitely is one of the tacit agreements we had, and you guys took care of that (some better than others). I’ll remember you when I become rich and famous and eat at places far superior to Thai Express. I’ll save you a chicken wing.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things.

The only song on the Tangs soundtrack that I still can bear to stand is My Favourite Things (The Sound of Music), because I have favourite things as well. I like olive green and I like the breeze on a chilly tropical night. I like late-night MSN conversations and catching a shiny Pokemon. I like making people laugh and I like peace between all my friends. I like it when the Internet connection is fast and I like winning in table soccer. I like it when I’m walking alone with someone I like and we’re not talking.

Not anything you can get on a shelf.

But, uh, you can TRY – I can’t win in table soccer if I don’t have a table soccer set in the first place.

I know you saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus, just shut up

I can totally relate to this – Tangs The Christmas Store plays Christmas songs the whole day, and after a few million loops it’s the same songs. Srsly, the next time I hear Jingle Bells in another weird twisted jazzy remix, I will HURL the thing in my hand at the nearest colleague – and since the thing in my hand is likely to be a porcelain cup, and the nearest colleague is likely to be on the further side of 40, have ph34r in your brave heart, nearest colleague.

evdevilise

I feel totally unholy now, ’cause even though I remembered “No Bible, No Breakfast” (self-explanatory) from Rhema, I worked at Thai Express today and promptly felt like killing Bobo today, and the Bible says that if you feel like doing anything it counts as you having DONE it. Oh, I wish.

Bobo (his real name, Steven, has been changed to protect his identity) is one of the guys in the white polo tees, obviously denoting a superiority to that of us lowly minions in unfashionable orange V-necks. And he likes to micro-manage! “Matthew first you take the ice from there *points to the only visible place where ice is kept*, then you pour the water *points to the tap – uh, I mean, well-preserved store of imported distilled water*“. Which would be tolerable if he actually remembered my name, but NO, most of the time it’s “Jeremy” or “boy” or “eh”. Basically it’s really hard to do my job if someone else thinks he can do it better than me, by just shouting out the most obvious instructions ever. And he proceeded to make use of his corporate seniority in every way possible. “Next time go out, must inform manager!” – this after I stepped out for a moment to return a text.

And he can’t pronounce or remember numbers.

Bobo: “Eh, OIL-LIVE RICE WHAT NUMBER?”
Kitchen help: “25!”
Bobo: “Okay.” *proceeds to get sauce for the rice* “Oh crap, I forgot the number. OIL-LIVE RICE WHAT NUMBER? SORRY!”

Wait, I don’t get it. How could anyone pronounce olive as “oil-live” and still have a shred of self-esteem?

Which just proves how hard it is to love someone, I guess. I think ever since I petitioned God for more love I have had more. I’ve been talking to people working in Thai Express more than I probably would have a few years back, because I’m really uncomfortable with talking to people I don’t know, let alone getting their numbers in the hope that I might save some. But no matter what my love is CONDITIONAL. It’s like, I could bring myself to love someone who speaks okay English and carries an okay conversation, but sometimes it feels like instead of praying for Bobo’s soul all I feel like doing is ripping his stupid centre-parting hair out of its sockets and pouring Green Chicken Curry on his ass.

It’s evil, but you have to admit, it sounds fun.