Quick Entry: The Deterrent Factor

There are people in this world who are blessed with an uncanny ability to impress upon others that they are trustworthy or friendly so as to invite a conversation or a smile. They are able to sow seeds of friendship with incredible ease; as easy as I can direct pee onto a urinal (though, given the state of some toilets, this may be a more difficult task than I give it credit for).

I, on the other hand, have the unfortunate ability to impress upon others that I am a sociopath, ridden with disease or some other contagious ailment. That is not to say that I am or have any of these things - it's just the 'vibe' that I give off. I have, what I have coined, the deterrent factor. I have it, Yangus has it, the hobo outside Wynyard station has it, Ivan Milat had it, that disgruntled fat lady who was irritated because I didn't get out of her way on the platform when her girth spanned the entire width of the platform, has it. It's an inexplicable phenomenon (at least in my case. I think Yangus et. al. were/are psychopaths or suffer(ed) from severe weight issues). I don't bother musing over the prospect of having advanced social interactions with strangers, like having a conversation. Hell, I have trouble getting people to sit next to me on a train during peak hour.

It is scant consolation that even Mr. Darcy had the deterrent factor. To quote him (from the 2005 film):

"I do not have the talent of conversing easily with people I have never met before."

Unfortunately, unlike Mr. Darcy, I am incapable of transforming the rather creepy notion of walking out of the mist with wild hair and a half unbuttoned shirt into an act of romance. I suspect that a restraining order will be made against me if I approached my love interest in a similar fashion. We can't all live on £10,000 a year and be ruggedly handsome.

On second thought, a spare seat next to me on a peak hour train isn't too bad. I guess the seat is reserved for someone who can see past my deterring countenance; whenever she decides to come around. For the meantime, I will also accept stinky-shit "I need some deo" guys or old asian blokes who pick their noses and wipe it on the seat in the vicinity of my thigh. Urgh.

Rusty

Much like my blog-writing skills (if indeed I ever possessed any) my ability to 'engage women' (pick up) has become rusty. This really shouldn't come as a surprise, for I have been well and truly out of the game for the better part of three years (or was it four? It's been so long that I've forgotten). In fact, during my hiatus from dabbling in relationships, and continuing hiatus mind you, I have not had the slightest inclination (or perhaps it is more accurate to say serious inclination) to become intimately involved with another. As a result, I am now prone to spontaneously devolve into a babbling fool when gorgeous women come my way.

Now I will be the first to admit that I am not immune to (wo)man's insatiable desire for affection and intimacy - even I, stoic and emotionally stale as I am - will from time to time, feel pangs of loneliness. Yes, even the proudest bachelor has moments of uncertainty - an identity crisis if you will.

5:07p.m, Thursday evening, three weeks ago, Wynyard station. Identity crisis. I sat next to one of the most gorgeous women I have ever encountered. Now there is one thing worse than being a babbling fool in front of a woman that interests you and that is not even being capable of babbling. I stole glances in silence - such was the extent of my courage.

Fast forward two weeks. 5:01pm, Friday evening, Passionflower, Kensington. Identity crisis (at this rate I am certain to suffer from bipolar disorder). A gorgeous waitress. Rewind and repeat. Silence.

"I'm rusty."

What an excuse.

The fact of the matter is, I was not rusty. I am not rusty. Rusty assumes that there was steel and resolve there to oxidise after lengthy exposure to the air and to liberation. In retrospect, I was never made of steel. I never had such resolve. I did not become rusty. I merely maintained my malleable constitution: a soft, cheap plastic that bends at the slightest touch. There is no rusty bullshit. Just a lack of balls and a pathetic knack for retrospective analysis. Someone needs to harden the fuck up, pronto.

Bachelor City Travels: Shanghai

Given that I will treasure my time in Shanghai for as long as I live, it is rather strange that I am currently having so much difficulty describing my experiences there. Perhaps I have indulged in cynicism for far too long; so long that I have relinquished the capacity to pen a happy piece. So long that I have forgotten what it is to be joyful. Perhaps, subconsciously, I do not want to taint a perfect memory with puerile contrivances or slight deviances in recollection.

I intended this post to be long, verbose and frankly, a little contrived (as my stories usually are), however, this post is none of those things. 

I did many things in Shanghai. I visited museums and marvelled at fine arts. I was swept away by the night lights. I sat in tiresome lectures, falling asleep to the lecturer's monotonous lullaby. I ventured into retirement villages (nightclubs). I sang karaoke. I took care of people too drunk to remember how drunk they really were. I beheld the beauty of pagodas and temples. I travelled in impossibly condensed trains. I ate in unashamed decadence. I made a fool of myself.

I also had the best time of my life.

But it was not the things that I saw, the aromas that I smelled nor the flavours that I tasted that made my time in Shanghai the best time of my life. It was the people that I enjoyed my time with. Thank you. I was more touched by the fact that you all remembered and celebrated my 21st birthday than you can ever imagine (at this point I would also like to thank my lovely sister, parents and my friends who held a surprise party for me the day I returned back to Australia). You guys and girls are amazing.

I will end this post with some photos I stole from facebook. Enjoy!

SuZhou. Laughing at Ben.

The lads on the HuangPu River Cruise

Ada's Birthday

The Shanghai Lads at the Oriental Venice

Group photo at Tiger Hill

Gaytime in karaoke

YuYuan Garden

The Oriental Venice

Best dumplings ever. For $6 AUD

The night lights

Dung Beetles

Seeing as my post rate is one per year, I think i'll get my work load done early. What do you think it means?

I give you: Dung Beetles.

It's blackness
Maybe a shade of grey
Either way
it's a hollow feeling

An angst
A desire
Something
But you don't know what that
something is

It's a mild
fear
Not living up to up to what you thought it would be
and acceptance of who you are

It's the knowledge that there's
something wrong
But you can't quite put your finger on it
It's scary sometimes
Because you can see it from the look of a stranger
A glance from a fellow person who knows
But you don't know
But also she knows you feel the same way

We all scuttle about
Trying to work out what it is we want
Who it is we love
And what we should do
to pass the time
But we know that it is a mere blip
Of history

Does it really matter?
You wouldn't think so
But you feel that it does

Most of all
It's a loneliness
It's a feeling that it's just you-
You fighting against the inevitability
The inevitability of fate

Sometimes you put pressure on yourself
Your mad scramble to fill up the space

Sometimes you think it's too much
But almost always you think it's not enough

I just wanted to say what I really mean.

One Step at a Time

I am sitting in the back seat of a car on a chilly Friday morning,facing a window and gazing at a man in the reflection who looks back at me with lifeless eyes - a man who as of late, has become a stranger to me. I reflect on the man I've come to be.

Each breath I take materialises into a cloud of mist which leaves its icy mark on the glass, as if the exhaled air was frozen from the coldness of my heart. Each breath I take obscures my reflection.

As the vehicle approaches a red light,  I observe an old man in the distance, walking on the street; a stooped figure making his way towards his final destination - wherever that happened to be. Each step seems a Herculean task, the walk more aptly described as a shuffle, yet he shuffles on unfazed. With each passing second; with each little step, he was that much closer to where he desired to be.

I return my focus to the man in the glass. We look at each other for a moment, both of us observing how jaded the other had become. The man spoke: "maybe we should take it one step at a time." I sighed, my breath obscuring his figure once more.

One step at a time. I wonder.

The Grass (Girls) are Greener (Better) on the Other Side (Melbourne)

We all suffer, to some degree, from a self-induced inferiority complex. Indeed, it is as they say: 'the grass is always greener on the other side'.

Be that as it may, I will obstinately argue that Sydney is a superior city to Melbourne. In fact, the grass is actually greener in Sydney. Literally. Melbourne grass is... shit. But whilst Sydney can boast greener grass, Melbourne can boast 'greener' women, and yes, this is coming from a proud Sydneian bachelor.

Sitting at a cafe in Glen Waverley (lots of great cafes here I might add), with a window view, wave after wave of beautiful women (hot chix) walked by or stood around for idle banter. I managed to prevent my chin from hitting the floor by resting it on a cup of coffee. I wished they had this channel on TV.

I thought, perhaps, that I was suffering from an inferiority complex, the 'grass is greener' syndrome, but after a week of staying in Melbourne, having not much to do but (for lack of a better word) perve, I have concluded that this could not possibly be the case. The ladies here are fine.

Still, I much prefer Sydney and am looking forward to going home this coming Monday. Looking forward to the greener grass. Sexy, sexy green grass. Jealous, Melbournians? Thought so.

Story Time

The day was gloomy, humid and sticky. Everyone wanted to get out of this tin can of a train carriage yet they were forced to sit in the blue pleather seats til their station. Some attempted to cool themselves off with makeshift fans out of newspaper, some had tissue to wipe off their sweat and others were shifting uncomfortably around in the packed rush hour seats.

I stood near the door, the only place with any type of ventilation, directed at a person through its tiny slits. "Next stop, Redfern". Great, its been 2 minutes and sweat has already covered my face. The people at Redfern get on, awkwardly squeezing themselves through the cracks of space within the carriage as most did not want to stand in the walkways. With awkward squeezing came awkward touching and with awkward touching came sweat transfer, a lot of sweat transfer...from skin to skin. *Shudder* As the door was about to close, she jumped on, throwing herself into the carriage like her life depended on it. Unfortunately she threw herself into the pole of the carriage, with a dull thud.

The pain on her face was obvious, the red mark on her forehead didn't fit in with her delicate features as they made a slight frown when she touched the bruise. Her build was slender with fair..proportions. Oh god shes looking at me, turn away turn away....oh yeah I can't turn away cause I'm stuck in this STUPID MOTHERF...TIN CAN. She takes a step towards me....turns and faces the door's window. She's also realised that the door was the coolest place in the carriage and I think I've just realised I shit my pants. "Next stop, Burwood". Her white button up flickered in the wind as the train picked up speed, randomly shifting as it sped through the smaller stations. Her hair was tied up in a bun and was a natural black. She wore a white t-shirt and grey jeans and black heels, the redness near her toes suggested they were a choice she'll regret later.

The people inside the carriage started to shift as we approached Burwood. Some people were polite enough to say 'Excuse me' while others just pushed their way through. Oh...right this is Burwood...and the train door opens on...my side. She looks at the people lining up behind her, and there doesn't seem to be any room other than...in front of me. She looks at me, I look at the door. She stands with her back facing me, attempting to dodge anyone trying to get out and get into the carriage as I forced myself to divert my thoughts out of my pants. The design of the carriage just had to have a pole behind where I was standing. Yes, I looked like a douche who was putting his crotch out while she was attempting to lean into my area.

The people in the carriage had left, leaving quite some space while others quickly went to the recently vacated seats. She moved to the other side of the door and leaned back against the wall as she looked out the window. As I took my glimpses and glances as the smaller stations passed,
The heat continued to torment the passengers of the train. She had a troubled look as she continued to look outside, as if a thought that had troubled her the entire day until, "Next stop, West Ryde". Damn, I turned to face the door, putting on my Ipod's earphones and tried to have Janice's "Chocolate Ice" cool me down as I made my way home.

I walked towards my bus stop, the clouds had started to gather, but the humidity of the day still had its effect. I stopped outside of the tattoo shop, put my bag down and took out my water bottle. As I took a gulp out of the water bottle, I hadn't noticed that she had gotten off the train. She stood, looking at the road's highest point, eagerly waiting for a bus to pop over that small hill in the road. Everyone was hoping the bus would arrive soon, she had beads of sweat trickling down the side of her neckline. I took another gulp of water.

The bus arrives and everyone was instantly relieved by the bus's air conditioning as they walked on. I decided to stand near the ticket machines, as it wasn't going to be a very long bus trip. I looked outside, the clouds had really gathered quickly and was rapidly turning into storm clouds as my stop approached.As I got off the bus, the cooler winds was heavenly, I pressed the button and waited for the signal. I had never realised that Janice's voice was this good until...waitaminute.

She pressed the button at the lights and waited beside it, looking very eager to cross as she quickly glanced up. I stood there, a little puzzled with her worried look, was she busting to go to the toilet?, Had she forgotten to take in the laundry?....her frowning continued on her pretty face. I was questioning my luck today, before the lights turned green for pedestrians. I walked across the street, and once again I pressed the button for the pedestrian lights. The gust from the speeding cars just after rush hour receded as the lights turned red. I felt a drop of rain land on my face....

Oh so that explains the troubled look, but wait, I think I have an umbrella in here....

I rummaged through my bag, searching its contents for the umbrella. It was nowhere to be found, but I was SURE that I had packed one in the morning. She had started to shield herself with her bag but the rain worsened. She ran when the lights for the crossing had turned green. I started to cross the road and closed my bag, giving up in my attempt to find an umbrella when, I realise that the umbrella was in an outside pocket. I hurried my steps a little..............

(Ok thats enough for today, I gotta make some good food for ma belleh. I might finish this story next time *Grin*)

Tough Titties

They say that when it rains it pours. Well, when shit happens, it pours shit. Wave after wave of faeces falling from the sky, as if the man upstairs is sitting on the thunderbox suffering from a bout of food poisoning. And when the torrent of shit finally ends, you find yourself wading around in a pile of shit or worse - you have already drowned in it. What an indignity. To die in a pile of shit.

The way you respond to shit is indicative of your character or disposition.  You can whine. You can approach the nearest person and polish your knuckles. You can huddle in the corner of an unlit room, clutching your knees, as if they were the only things that kept you alive and breathing, drowning in your own tears, wallowing in self-pity. You can be pathetic. Or not.

Sometimes when shit happens, all you can say is: "tough titties," and move on.

Your computer crashes and you lose your 10,000 word dissertation. Tough titties.

You fail again and again to call a flirt when, in retrospect, it was so obvious. Tough titties.

You get turned down at the final round interview for an internship. Tough titties.

Your crush finds a boyfriend. Tough titties.

Your acne breaks out again just when you felt ready to date after years of hiatus. Tough titties.

Your parents don't love each other anymore. Tough titties.

Life is shit sometimes. Throw some anti-diharreal Imodium in the sky, have a cry, but move on. Because you know what? Tough motherfucking titties.

Moving On

Emotional attachment is a dangerous thing. It is a narcotic. We yearn dearly for it; we immerse ourselves in the euphoria of the experience when we obtain it; we become utterly dependent on it, and the moment we are deprived of it, we spiral into a seemingly perpetual cycle of suffering and withdrawal – we surrender to the gravity of emptiness, and the darkness of emptiness is dense indeed.

It is an electrostatic bond. Once broken, the elements roam fervently to locate a substitute and reform the compound. Some of us are halogens; desperate to complete our outer shell, clinging onto the closest element in our vicinity, sometimes, the very same element that we were torn away from in the first place. Others are inert and are in no rush to form a compound again, if ever.

For most of us, moving on is akin to emerging from absolute darkness. We stand blind, precariously on the edge of a precipice. We shift tentatively, fearing the depthless abyss that awaits a misguided step. But as we venture away from the origin, with blind faith in the solidity of the earth beneath our feet, the sun begins to emerge from its slumber. With every step, it rises further still, until the world is lit in its glorious entirety. With our vision reborn, we look back to find a precipice of yielding foundation, destined to crumble. With our vision reborn, we look forward to find a new element – another element to yearn for, to immerse in euphoria with, to depend on, and with any luck, to not suffer over.

Emotional attachment is a dangerous thing, but it is the inability to move on that is the hand that thrusts the knife into one's heart. So move on.

Esjay

Photogenic (or not) pt. 2

In a quick blog entry I wrote on a sunny afternoon sometime during April last year (probably following a narcissistic self check-out session in front of a large mirror), I noted that I was (and am) terribly unattractive in photos and pondered whether photographs were an accurate reflection of the physical form. Given the following examples, I certainly hoped not.

Example 1: Drunk Face

Example 2: Cabramatta Face

Example 3: Dancing like a retard face.

I have since come to terms with my inability to look good in a photograph. Rather, I have found that with the right lighting, one can mitigate the 'turd-smearing effects of the camera lens' (see link to previous blog entry above), and I have put this revelation to good use.

Normal Lighting

As you can see, the above photograph is not very flattering. My shiny forehead and overt skin blemishes exacerbate the bemused look on my face.

25% Reduced Lighting

At reduced lighting, it is clear that my mirror-like forehead is not as prominent as the previous picture and the dark patches around my cheeks blend somewhat well with the now darker background. This has the effect of abating the amount of attention a viewer places on my face (the salient feature in the photograph), and increases the probability that a viewer concentrates on my 'herculean' body instead.

50% Reduced Lighting

With further reduction in lighting, the photograph has become rather acceptable. My flaws blend well with the background, and my bemused look will be interpreted by viewers as: "Someone has taken a picture of this poor douche in the dark without him knowing, and the click of the camera has thoroughly confused him, which is understandable given he looks kind of stupid."

100% Reduced Lighting

At 100% reduced lighting you cannot see my face at all. My bemused look, shiny forehead, and bad complexion are completely hidden; ergo, the picture is... perfect.

The secret to a great photograph? Lighting.

Plenty of Fish in the Sea

In episode 7 of season 1 in the U.S sitcom, 'How I Met Your Mother' (Matchmaker), Ted Mosby approaches a dating consultant and an amusing exchange ensues after the consultant purports to possess an algorithm that can perfectly match a person with another based on certain variables related to preferences and personality.

Ted: ... I don't need an Algorithm to meet women. It's New York City. You know, plenty of fish in the sea.

Ellen: Plenty of fish in the sea. Yes, there's 9 million people in New York, 4.5 million women, of course you wanna meet someone roughly your own age, let's say, plus minus 5 years. So if we take into account the most recent census data, that leaves us with 482,000. But ah, wait. 48% of those are already in relationships and then you have to take out the ex-girlfriends and the relatives and oh, we can't forget those lesbians and then that leaves us with 8 women.

Ted: That can't be right. Eight? Really, eight?

Ellen: There are 8 fish in that big, blue ocean Ted. And if you feel confident that you can reel one into your boat without me, there's the door.

Ted: Do you take credit cards?

8 women. Preposterous. As I was a firm believer in the 'many fish in the sea' principle, I decided to undertake some research of my own to prove that, at least in my case, there are substantially more than 8 fish in the ocean. In fact, I wanted to prove that there were thousands of fish in the sea, and that there were other schools waiting to be baited in vast oceans.

The Variables

Before pursuing my research, I distinguished a number of key qualities that I look for in a woman:

• Must actually be a woman. No surprises.
• Must be of straight sexual orientation.
• Preferably be around the same age.
• Of Asian background.
• Smart (IQ over 120).
• Aesthetically pleasing (to me).
• Not overweight (this is of the utmost importance).
• Not in a relationship.
• Personalities must be compatible.

Perfectly reasonable expectations.

The Statistics

There are 7,238,800 people in Sydney. The sex ratio of women to men is 99.2:100 (ABS, 2010), which leaves approximately (rounded to the nearest person) 3,633,936 women. Of these women, 7% are in the 15-24 age bracket (the 'plus minus 5 years' benchmark, ABS 2010), 16.9% are Asian, of which 63% are truly Asian (i.e. excluding the Indian population, etc. No offence, ABS 2007), and 4.3% are lesbian (study by Monash University). 25,919 women left.

The IQ scale is based on standard deviations, so only 10% of women will have an IQ greater than 120. 2592.

Having conducted an experiment, where I observed over 30 women on the train and gave them an 'aesthetic rating' between 1 and 10 (1 being appallingly unattractive and 10 being drop dead gorgeous), I assumed my sample was approximately normally distributed (given the high sample number) and employed the empirical rule to ascertain that 15.8% of women I meet or rather, see, I will rate above 7.6 (which is roughly a distinction; good enough). 410.

54% of Australians are overweight (ABS 2006). Terrible. 188.

Let us, for convenience sake, assume that the statistic provided by the sitcom holds true and that 48% of people are already in a relationship and that there is a 50% probability of personality compatibility. That leaves...

The Result

46 women. There are 46 women in Sydney that fits the bill, and I haven't even considered the minute possibility of meeting these women by chance encounter. Do you take credit cards indeed.

New Year Resolutions

On the stroke of midnight - the temporal bridge between the New Year and the last - seated on an aged couch of fading floral patterns in a lounge room that has scantly changed over the course of 20 years, I resolved never to concoct a list of New Year resolutions again.

I reasoned that if one's desire to change for the better was to have any ounce of integrity, the birth of said desire, would not hinge on a trivial and rather artificial milestone in time. The only stimulus for change should be the realisation of the need for change and surely such a realisation can come at any point during the year - our flaws are not annual in their emergence. If only we were so fortunate.

Yet as I sat in contemplation of my aforementioned resolution (how ironic), I became increasingly wary of how time had left its subtle mark on everything in my surroundings, like the tide against a sandstone cliff, though their positions have remained unchanged for as long as I could remember. The chipped paint on the corners of the wall, the fading couch, the layer of dust on the antique frame that houses an old photograph of my youth long lost. Have I too been worn away by time? Have I become jaded and apathetic?

At this point, everything that was wrong in my life became all too clear, as if the clouds of doubt in my mind had been swept away by a torrent of confronting rain, leaving me with an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. The façade I had erected to convince myself that everything was OK;that everything was as I wanted it to be, shattered into a myriad of infinitesimal fragments, leaving only a feeling of discontent like a foul aftertaste. Fuck me dead; I needed to change. So much for my resolution.

New Year Resolutions

1. Treat my family better.
2. Keep in touch with friends.
3. Improve Law.
4. Be a good tutor.
5. Practice piano and guitar regularly.
6. Stay fit.
7. Read and write more.
8. End two year run (and counting) of bachelorhood.