Blogger and I have come to a point in our relationship where I have ended up screaming and wanting to throw things at it. In the end, it failed because this was a relationship of convenience, and blogger just stopped being convenient.

Therefore,

My new stomping ground can be found at http://enougherasers.wordpress.com

Ok, I just finished my internship and drew&napier. I've done all the possible sai kang you can do without having any legal training, had lots of free time spent pretending to be busy, went to eat some very good lunches, tried not to kill kenneth kang, and most importantly, write like a lawyer. Like so:

Statement of Claim

1. The Plaintiff being the first child of co-owners of 37 Symphony Heights #03-04 ("the Residence") was present at the Residence, specifically in her bedroom which is found at the end of the living room and is the only other room besides the masterbedroom which has an attached bathroom ("the Bedroom"), on or about 29 November 2006.

2. The Defendant being the third child of the co-owners of the Residence was also present in the Bedroom on or about 29 November 2006.

3. On or about 830pm, the Plaintiff walked into the Bedroom to discover that her bed, which is the bed situateded closest to the window found on the opposite side of the room facing the door ("the Bed"), was in a unreasonable mess. The quilt, inter alia, was on the floor and the pillows, one a normal pillow found bought at Robinson's and the other a special hypoallergenic pillow were found to be severely askew.

4. The Defendant was seen to be jumping on the Bed without the expressed permission of the Plaintiff. When an oral command was issued through the Plaintiff's mother, who is also one of the co-owners of the Residence, the Defendant refused to comply.

5. In retaliation under the Sibling Rivalry Act Clause 3.4, the Plaintiff took the completely legal action of grabbing the Defendant and hoisting her off the Bed.

6. Under these circumstances, the Defendant proceeded to hurl verbal abuse at the Plaintiff, inter alia, calling the Plaintiff a fat pig, a shit-eater, a doo doo head, and nagger ("the Insults")

7. The Insults caused much emotional distress to the Plaintiff, who will be claiming the following costs:

- Monies that total 2 months of the Defendant's pocket money, or the total sum which this honourable court will allow

- Bondage to the Plaintiff for the month of December, during which all of the Plaintiff's household chores must be completed by the Defendant

- costs on an indemity basis

JULIE CHAN LLC

29/11/2006

cxw/259912

You so ugly, that MTV wants to put you on their new show, Pimp My Face.

Hmmm...what to do, what to do.... I don't know really. Next year will be tough, but interesting. Tough, in caps, bolded, italicised, and in large font.

TOUGH


That's more like it. Going to space out now. Spaaaaace ouuttt. Like floating. Back in the days when people had marijuana and free love to make them forget the Vietnam War and all that was wrong with the world. Freeeee luuuurrrvvv. And lots of free diseases too.

My mother is a very proper person. She doesn’t like people talking about vomit or other expulsions of the human body. She won’t even tolerate an “ew” at the table. And the only swearing that she allows is swearing to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you Mom. But something happened today that threw her circuits completely out of whack. This is what she said during dinner.

“You know today on the bus home, there was this girl and 2 guys, from the Singapore American school I think. Wah, they were talking normally but they said fuck and shit in every sentence. Fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit, every sentence has at least one fuck. Some have two fucks. Sometimes they use fuck and shit together. I never heard people say fuck or shit so many times.”

This was quite a stunner. I couldn’t stop laughing. Admittedly, she wasn’t swearing, but it is a dramatic change from seventeen years of purity to fucks in every sentence.

Out of complete boredom, I conducted a through examination of the 3 drawers of my desk. The top one is locked, the second holds stationery from me and previous interns, and in the last, I discovered an ancient relic that used to be a Coffee-Made container. When I shook it, the sound was strongly reminiscent of rocks rattling in a plastic bottle. I hurled it into the wastepaper basket in disgust.

Oh.. and on a lighter and more annoyed note, I got stalked again.

How is it that all stalkers are bloody cheekopeks? Why can't they be some incredibly hot guy who will take me out to expensive restaurants, buy me jewellery, take me flying in his brand new private jet, and marry me on a Carribean beach?

This one dressed badly, smelled like smoke, had really really bad teeth and only gave up when I hailed a taxi.

It's terribly hard to let your dreams go. I remember when I was a kid that I desperately wanted to be a model (yeah I can hear you laughing from over here) and then I realised that I wasn't tall enough. Then I went through a phase where all I wanted to be when I grew up was Pegasus. I liked horses, and I liked flying. However, that was when I started reading the Greek myths, and found out that not only did Peggy spring from Medusa's chopped head, but he was in fact, a boy. My dream died when I couldn't find a suitable plastic surgeon.

But really, the most horrible bit is watching other people LIVE them. This is probably why I can't stand people like Tom Cruise and Britney Spears. For all their ridiculous exploits, they are actually living a fantasy. (albeit one with multiple pregnancies and jumping on couches) There are beautiful clothes to be worn, movies to make, and being simlutaneously worshipped around the whole world. The ones that you really need to worship are those that poured blood and soul and came out poorer. Well, I suppose they gained something in a fuzzy, spiritual, we-lost-but-we're-still-a-team kind of way, but hey, I would still rather have the bloody shiny thing on the shelf.

Well well, life goes on. Emo-ness is a pathetic thing really.

I always liked Bambi as a kid. Disney was completely sneaky in killing of Bambi's mom without traumatising the kid audience too much, probably by bringing in the previously absent father (the bastard), and giving Bambi lots of cute friends. My favourite was Thumper, so named because he made thumping noises when he hopped. Thumping may describe the sound of heavy blows, or it may also be taken to mean ass whupping, as demonstrated by Bush after losing to the Democrats.

If this quote from the Straits Times was taken out of context, it would make some kind of sense. Lee Hsien Loong said "It's what makes him a strong leader. I think in shows in these circumstances. Whether the election has a thumping outcome or not, he is in a thumping mood." So Bush is ready to give as good as he gets.

Unfortunately, the PM was really refering to Bush's jovial mood and his promise to keep up the good work in Asia. Evidently, PM Lee needs to go back to reading Enid Blyton. She is an excellent teacher for usage of words like thumping, smashing, crumpet, and golly.

It might be just me, but "thumping" sounds vaguely ridiculous, made worse by being used in the same sentence twice. Maybe the Pm is displaying symptoms of over-exposure to Dubya, and being infected with Bushisms.

Hello everyone. I just went to Caltex House to watch kenneth eat rosti and a sausage. Ben is still not back. There are bright red binders and arch files on my desk from yesterday because we were going through the plaintiff's stuff. We just got our security passes, which by the way, can be easily forged, just paste a passport sized photo of yourself. The security guards don't check these in the mornings, mostly because they're afraid of being trampled to death by a herd of suited and perfumed beasts.

For the third time. someone has given kenneth the wrong name. His security pass, which is stuck with him for one month, reads Drew and Napier LLC
Ocean Towers #17-00
Kenneth Kong

The exec in charge of recruitment has told him that kong is a better name anyway. It sounds refined, unlike kang. which sounds loud. I don't see how you can get any louder than a twenty foot primate beating his chest on top of the Empire State Building. She walked away before I could point that out.

Ben has gone to court, both the Raffles Medical Hospital and the polyclinic, as he calls it. So today, according to his instructions, kenneth kang and I are to take it easy. Unfortunately, there aren't many things to do in a cubicle at Drew and Napier. I know the bloody affadavits as well as Great Expectations, and definitely better than The Great Gatsby. I don't feel so great. It's dress down friday, and even then everyone is wearing freaking stiff collared stuff. Hmm...bored bored bored.

Kenneth has been reduced to opening and closing the CD drive on my com. I have a lousy com. The interns in the other wing have the newer coms with the keyboards that have satisfying "clack" sounds that make what you're doing seem all important and life-saving. I however, have been creating tables on Microsoft Word, because my eunuch computer has no Excel on it. Anyway, Davinder Singh (who everyone here calls DS but Ben doesn't dare talk to) just ambled slowly by. Time to pretend that I'm actually doing something.

Someone told me that you need to control your own emotions in order to manipulate other people's. I'm not very sure about this. Hasn't art portrayed this kind of repressions as the means that everyone else controls us? It all boils down to a power thing, where all of us just want to have the upper hand. May as well be me. It would be great to scream when I want, have people cower when I want, and being able to eat peanut butter and chocolate spread out of the jar. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

Had that H3 briefing today. I probably fall into that class of people who are more unsure than not about the area they would like to research on. Maybe I'll do young children's literature, the kind that only ever has titles that are variants of Spot Goes Running, and is used to teach four year olds to read. It'll be so incredibly asinine that the Cambridge examiners will believe it to be horribly profound and give me an A. I wonder which teacher will be willing to mentor me for that?

I know that I prefer lit any day to history, but I still regreted not doing history h3 slightly. Turns out you can do in on stuff like art history or film history or history of the American development of the doughnut. I would've done something controversial but quite relatable. Perhaps the history of the French Fry revolution and how it came to replace mashed potato as the side of choice.

I must be stoned on something because random thoughts are bouncing around my head, giving new meaning to "freethinker". It is painfully boring, which is why I'm glad that I'm starting work tomorrow, even if its going to be sai kang and pays peanut shells. I am a strong advocate of using formats that please the eye, but since this is an exceptional day, and more exceptional to some than others, I will break my rule.

Happy Birthday Vanessa!!!

Written is response to reading Euthanasia: What's age got to do with it? by John-Henry Westen in today's Straits Times.

Doctors in Britain are trying to get infant euthanasia legalised, something which they call post-partum abortion. They want to be able to initiate it for severely disabled infants as a safer option that will not harm the mother as much as an end-term abortion. Nothing could be more horrific. Let me clarify, that first, I have nothing against abortions before the spinal column has formed, because I don't think that a ball of cells counts as an individual. I also have no problem with abortions done to save the life of the mother. However, late term abortions, where the foetus has developed some form of consciousness is already bad enough. Now, if the doctors get their way, there's no protecting disabled infants whose parents would rather not have them.

Euthanasia is acceptable only because it is the choice made by the individual himself when he wants to escape unbearable pain that will only end after a long-drawn out death. But infant euthanasia is hardly consensual, which is the first reason why it is so wrong. A baby cannot be asked whether it wants to live or die, neither has it developed the mental faculties to make such a choice. It is much better to let nature take its course rather than let other people decide when it's time for a newborn to die. Admittedly, the baby is going to suffer, but this can be alleviated with palleative care.

Suffering is something that some can bear better than others, and is hardly quantifiable. Even if it was, no one knows if the person in question would rather live or die. Granted, in some instances, if the infants were able to make such a choice, many of them would choose to die. But to make the other error of killing an individual that wants to live outweighs letting nature take its painful course.

The article defended its stand first by saying that we should not discriminate the right to die by age. If this were possible, I would agree with the writer. But as established, the right to die has to be a free choice, not a choice made for you. Then the writer says that Holland has implemented this law without the sky falling, so we should all be ok. The non-occurrence of apocalypse is not a good defence for the existence of a bad law. A bad law may not cause total destruction, but the damage done is still principally unacceptable.

Furthermore, there's the slippery slope argument, which is used in about everything and wuite tiresome. But it is here that it is most applicable and the consequences are closer than ever. If we do decide that it is ethically acceptable to kill a severely disabled newborn, then what would stop us from deciding that killing a severely disabled, mentally retarded person to "ease his suffering"? What next? Will we then decide that people with mental illnesses also have lives not worth living, and kill them too? The most disturbing thing is that the article suggests this very thing, that parents be allowed to euthanise their children even in early childhood or even adolescence when severe autism, manic-depressive disorder, and schizophrenia become apparent.

The writer is out of his mind when he tells us that it is acceptable to choose for a large number of children whether they deserve to live. Firstly is is wrong to take away the right to life of an innocent, in fact, from anybody who does not directly threaten your immediate existence. (I am also against the death penalty, but that's another argument.) Secondly, if Britain does decide to follow Holland's example, then they are on the precipice of far worse things. What kind of society do we want? One that fights as hard as it can to save a human life while respecting the freedom of choice, or one that makes the choice for you, essentially abandoning you when you need it most?

Expats are an imported breed here, but I saw something today that shows exactly how much they are in demand. There's this giant black and yellow sign on a window at Balmoral Plaza, and it says Expat Rentals. I suppose now the government has made foreign talent sound so attractive that everyone wants one. Maybe they have different rates for expats. Like your common garden expat, the one with blonde hair, suit, drinks and exclaims alot would set you back $50 an hour. Then the ones who know how to eat Hokkien Mee, live in HDB flats and ride their uncle Bob's bicycle will cost twice as much because they are so scarce. The sunburnt ones will be on discount.

I was on the bus outside the stop at Far East Plaza, and I saw this big-nosed French guy hesitate around this woman whose long hair was hiding her faced. He circled a bit, and peered at her, kind of like a dog deciding whether or not to pee at a fire hydrant. So he decides that he will pick her up, and sits down next to her, startles her with his loud voice, then smiles alot. The woman looks rather flattered, and starts talking to him when really what she should be doing is telling the sod to bugger off. But who knows? It could be the start of something beautiful. And romantic. And that is so strong and deep that he will freeze his butt off while she lies on a floating door in the middle of the Atlantic after their ship smashes into the iceberg. Nah.

"SHITT!!!! WHAT HAPPENED??" screamed Fong Sai. He wet his pants. "I'm BLIND!!"

The smell of urine mingled with week-old bar chor mee in the reception area. Sunlight poked through the clouds, haze from Indonesia, and the dirty glass doors of the police post. It was just after lunch.

Jocks Drap's superhero instincts kicked in. He shoved Corporal Ong under his desk (with normal strength, Jocks didn't have Mr Incredible's powers of superstrength). His eyes scanned the semi-darkness with his X-ray vision. Like Clark Kent, he could turn the power on and off at will, whether to peer through 10 inch thick steel walls or to tell a mega oil company where to dig. Unfortunately, it had rather inconvenient limitations. Jocks vision never allowed him to see through the most hardy of substances, the fabric of a bikini bottom, or a lacy brassiere. Twas such a horrendous weakness and threat to his safety that Jocks cursed his inadequecy daily.

A creeping figure presented itself into the reception room. Jocks stretched out his ultra elasti-arm to grab the man, and promptly tore his long-sleeve shirt. The loud ripping sound seemed to have startled the intruder.

"Eh, you eat too much laksa issit? That time I ate from the coffeeshop across the road and then..."

Jocks got a grip on him this time and pinned him against the wall. "Who the hell are you?"

The man was indignant. "Sorry ok! I service air-con, then something short circuit. Accident OK? Why you so buay song?"

With a sheepish smile, and a profusion of apologies, Jocks let the air-con serviceman down. He had a morbid fear of Ah Bengs. It all started when he was six, and a group of young Ah Sengs saw his tailor-made elasti-suit meant to expand with him, and called it si bei obiang, then tied his arms into a knot. "Fong Sai, you can come up now."

Fong Sai resurfaced with another wave of ammonia. He started a tirade against the air-con serviceman. In the dim light, Jocks could tell that the Ah Beng was pale, skinny, and looked like he was about to die. A suspicion bloomed in his head.

"What's your name?" he whipped out the photo Corporal Ong had given him, "This is you isn't it? Why are you really here? Tell me NOW!"

"I donch telw youuuuuu!" shrieked the air-con Ah Beng, and he bounded out the police post, and into a waiting van that read 'Air Conditioners, Smooth and Silky.

"Should we go after him?" asked Fong Sai excitedly.

"No," replied Jocks Drap, "I'm going to call his company to comprain."