Never have I been so tittilated and grossed out watching women weightlifters from Poland.
Sunday, 29 July 2012
Saturday, 28 July 2012
Final minutes of day one. Team GB disappoints at cycling. The 'Dream Team' just wasn't dreamy enough. Nice golden win for Kazakhstan.
Michael Phelps, on the other hand, places no medal since a long time ago. Bad start. Maybe he should indeed retire after this while he still has that value.
Sometimes I want to clean my life for the hell of it, the thrill of responsibility. Sometimes I clobber myself to thinking I needed to do something for a future, a worthwhile life, a legacy to leave behind. Sometimes I groom myself emotionally and physically for a day, and for what? Six hours later, drenched wet, going home empty-handed, and another illusion of having done a socially-acceptable lifestyle. That I prove to others I have no sociopathic tendencies. That I am ordinary, that I mingle for the sake of mingling. Because life is like that, ever so clingy to worldly favours. One's self is never enough, they say.
Some say that no one man is an island. I beg to differ, some are indeed islands. Islands that form an archipelago, albeit independently, forming tight bonds of respect and honour, and they are all better off that way.
Loneliness has no factor in this. The islands are by no means exclusive but invitational.
I could sleep now, and wake up early. Do a long run or something. But the blaring noises from the distance still resonate within my walls. There's that urge to switch the channel, but who knows what's going to happen. It might be monumental, might not be.
Or maybe I should just rest then. Fuck it.
Friday, 27 July 2012
My lady, I feel so alive...
Tonight marks the day of rings, of gold, of silver, of bronze. Here we stand at the moment of triumph, of defeat, and of class disparities. Tonight, we bow down to the birth, destruction, death, retribution of human will.
This will not take forever. My mind is already broken. I can see something's missing.
Monday, 2 July 2012
Cecil has had too much laziness for a single lifetime. Laziness of the utmost insignificance. To endure such a gruelling fate is laughably pathetic, and Cecil is all of it and more.
His green and soiled toothbrush loiters beside the LED monitor unattended. His used blue kitchenwares have been left there and forgotten while a bottle of sparkling drink stares at the fork with utter dismay. There are two bottles of urine beside that bottle that are indistinguishable from each other, and may easily distract and fool bystanders into drinking it.
His mobile phone lies not far, jittery and shaken by the constant stream of messages and updates. Cena had been trying to contact him all day now for a favour. Cecil has always been aware of it, and yet he tries hard to avoid being condescending, so as not to bear her rude indecisiveness and unappreciative demeanour. Cena had been begging Cecil to stay, if only the idea was as easy as it seemed.
Cecil had been hiding from the world for the past couple of weeks now after the culmination of his failed attempt at heroism. He stands low and unstable, unable to cope with the sudden emptiness that surrounded him, and finds comfort as a recluse. There is this one plan he dreams on achieving. This is the one plan to leave it all behind.
And yet Cena still keeps on begging, her eyes bleeding red tears of make-believe. She waits right there with him, anticipating his every move and assisting him through the harshness of her experiences. There is this veil that she keeps, a veil that stood the test of time, the true symbol of her emotional promiscuity. This one veil is hers to use, and it deceives the witness into thinking her weakness makes her more sympathetic as a character. In actuality, her weakness is despicable and vile, feeding off on others' trust and sympathy. A sympathetic succubus, a veil of loathing and revulsion, this she represents.
All day Cecil keeps on questioning the motive and comes up with poor excuses of his own, unintentionally causing to nurture a heinous dead weight. He just cannot seem to find a reason to be happy in his young adulthood. Everything just seems to find a way to fail and put lives down.
His mobile phone buzzes a familiar tone, and all he ever hoped to receive then for was change. That something should change according to what he deserves. The easy response would indicate that he simply deserves a little bit of love and affection. Everybody does. Everyone loves to remind each other that. He clutches the tiny gadget into his perfectly symmetric hand. He proceeds to unlock the device and explore the hidden pleasures from within. A short message pops up, and a smile begins to build from Cecil's face.
This person calls for his name, then proceeds to ask him if he wants to meet up some place for a pint or two and a round of chat, perhaps not long but to him it's an hour of companionship feels like an eternity of joy. His desperation throbs at the very thought, and he spent not too long before he said yes. He had to maintain that illusion of integrity, which he needed to absolve in order to move on. His pride may have kept him at bay, but this bay is rather depressing and a new view might help ease the tension.
'It would be nice to see you!' Jardina, the woman whom he admires, says, and then ends with a depressing, 'But no pressure, come only if you can.'
Cecil had to counter with a snide remark, not so snide as to offend Jardina but only to give her an impression that they both are comfortable with each other. She replies with a laugh. That is all he needed to read before his heart imploded at the rare moments of appreciation. Neglecting thoughts of Cena for awhile, he pampers himself for a bit, shower and unsanitary toothbrush both, before departing to recreate his smile.
The next day, Cecil finds himself complete and ready to face another set of disappointment. There had been numerous messages waiting for him on his mobile, all of which he expected to have positive outcomes. But unfortunately his disappointment has yet to begin once again. An endless cycle of waiting and a hopeless routine of butthurtry. He reminds himself of last night, satisfactorily to his taste, that left a mark on the palm of his right hand. Italy had just lost to Spain four to nothing, and the gringos made their presence felt all over town. There were short indulgent moments with random people; a homeback British KIA, women named Jen and Alexis, an Italian can't-remember-who. Finally a second bicycle trip on a dewy morning high with only his friend among the few, smiling and recycling old potty jokes to each other. Not bad for a single night of merriment and applause.
Cecil bids touché at the memory and moves on. Today, he meets Cena in a full-on offensive assault. His only life now revolves around the drama. His life reminds us that we are all byproducts of ressentiment.
There is a mark in the palm of my right hand that I almost couldn't remember procuring. Why I couldn't almost remember was because today was a monumental joykiller. The Antediluvians are at it again as they normally would, crashing and burning and salivating at the thought of me in very precarious situations. Something tells me to tidy up and destroy the evidence of joy that is left from last night's escapade. But why should I? If it's the only thing that caresses my soft spot for hope. I can't even help but be sentimental to a one-hour tattoo because it's the only thing that reminds me of what it means to be happy with people. Because as it normally turns out, the people always concoct different ways of disappointment, and therein lies in the middle a sore misanthrope: none other than me, silently whispering solitude in the blanched, moist sky, with nothing but promises of gold buried deep by the Antediluvians who wish to inflict me pain. Pain of the utmost torture, because life is pain, and pain is destiny.