Ego Trippin.

I want you to want me.

Yea, that's just it. No '... the way that I need you ... ' or any of that shit.

This is going to be one of those posts where I think I have figured something out but I actually haven't and am just very good at spinning the story around so much that you think that I have but we're actually just back at square one.

Like that.

Love. It's a beautiful thing, isn't it? It's the most elusive, yet the most powerful feeling in the world. And it's a drug. The most potent and yet priceless (in most cases) drug to exist. It gives you such a great high you can't even feel the ground. You forget everything horrible that ever happened to you, drawing back the good ones in an effortless flow. And you could never overdose, which means you can take as much as you want but your heart won't stop from the dosage.

But it makes you lose your mind. You could die for it. You could kill for it. And eventually the ecstasy is so overwhelming, it kills you in one quick moment of euphoria.

And you die absolutely sated.

But then again, I was never a fan of drugs.

And I don't think I'm about to make an exception for love.

No. I don't want to love. I don't want to waste my time, my effort, my mind even, on the thoughts, the memories, the ups, the downs, and the lefts and rights on it. I don't want to have to spend years of my life just thinking about love. And many more getting high on it.

But I never said I would never handle this miracle potion.

Yea, I could be a pusher. A drug pusher.

Dealing it out to those who can afford it. Making sure you know what you will get yourself into before we work out the contract. Supplying it to those who should not be on it, and yet so easily handing it over when the goods come my way.

Yes. I want to deal love.

I want people to love me.

And here begins this selfish chain of emotions. I want you to love me, but you get your love from somewhere else. You should adore me, worship me, think about me and want me. That's all I need. But don't love me too much though. Don't obsess with me to the point you keep little bits of my hair in a ziplock bag and pictures of me engraved in your head. Love me, just not too much.

And this is another reason why I'm convinced I'm not human. Because I don't want to know what love is. I just want to know that you love me. My stone heart seems to prevent me from this normal human function that people live their entire lives for. I simply don't feel the need to give love.

And perhaps this is because of some far more critical detail of my past which I have yet to uncover.

Which might probably scare me alot more than this already frightening revelation.

Cheers.

Desperation.

In need of a little bit less.


I need someone to talk to right now. I really do. I can see my phone right next to me, but it's not moving. It's not trying to tell me someone is on the other side desperately trying to speak to me. Because there isn't anyone. There isn't anyone in this building to talk to.

Because no one understands.


And yeah, in case you haven't guessed, this is going to be an 'emo' post.

What is 'emo' anyway?

And who the fuck came up with such a stupid word to replace feelings of pain and depression and anguish and frustration and sheer disappointment.

Oh, I'm sorry. Is the English Language too much of a labour for you? Do you need to speak EVEN faster then? OK, then I guess it's alright to say 'emo'.


Someone left today.
Someone broke my heart today.
Someone lied to me today.
Someone pretended to care today.
Someone died today.
Someone was buried today.


'Why so emo?'


Yes. My face is puffy, my eyes are bloodshot and there are tears streaming down my face because of this silent bitter sob. But you are asking me why I am 'emo'.


Maybe just once people would start to really understand how I feel. People will understand why I think the way I do. The way I am so negative about everything. The way I wish things could be, but never ask for it. The way I moan to myself, but will never want to tell you about it. The way I describe a bitter situation in detail before listening to comments. The way I predict the inevitable that will depress you. The way I mean when I am a realist.

Before you call me 'emo'.

I am utterly depressed right now. My mouth is burning, the humidity is drowning me, and Michael Jackson's memorial made me want to cry.

Hardly a cause for concern? I know it isn't.

But the phone is still not ringing. And I'm still thinking.

XXX

So what is a best friend anyway? I don't even know what a friend is, much less a best one. And why does everyone get so flustered about this best friend?

Let's just say for the point of this post - we know what a friend is. The one you go to a party with, the one you call when you're upset, the one who would help you out when you needed it.

Hardly the case, but OK.

So you move on in life with your 'friend'. And then soon she starts seeming closer to you and better than all your other 'friends' which now makes her your 'best friend'. And you two become as lesbian as you can get, without the animal sex.

And then something happens. Someone says something in a fit of anger, or one of you gets knocked up by the other's boyfriend. And suddenly you are best friends no more.

It doesn't matter at this point though, that there was something you never liked about her in the first place. Or that you really couldn't stand her at all, but you had to because you needed to use somebody. And she couldn't stand you either. She ditched you for someone else she wouldn't have cared about under any other circumstances.

But both of you fell in love, couldn't stand to be away from each other, and dreaded the moments you had apart.

True love is a bitch, isn't it?

And that is why you will never know what a friend is, and who she is until the end. Your best friend is going to hate you and do things out of spite to you, all while she treats you like a princess.

You have only yourself in this life.

The ones who matter are just there for the ride.

Cheers.

Inspiration.

Should hit me like a speeding bullet.

So just a few weeks ago, I had allowed myself to slump back into laziness. Not physical-laziness. Not mental-laziness. But let's just call it style-laziness.

To me, it was some kind of a feat (or perhaps just an excuse to be a downright sloth) that I made myself wear the same pair of jeans for an entire month. And with nearly the same t-shirt.

So right now I am desperately trying to inspire myself.

1. Lady Gaga

Of all the people, I have to choose a hermaphrodite with an aversion to pants. I surprise myself sometimes.

But she inspires me. She makes me want to be bold and daring with my style and build a wardrobe full of crazy pieces, just for the heck of it. Although I would never wear a sheer jumpsuit with Scotchtape on my nipples or stiletto-collared jackets, I do see myself dressing more differently than everyone else with an attitude towards fashion that I've always had but never showed.

2. Pussycat Dolls

In this case I am talking about their first album. Before they went all latex and BDSM lingerie-crazy. They wore cool spunky outfits, with a clear American cool to it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F06uVuzes7Q

3. The 80s

My favorite era of that millenium. The era where neon was acceptable and fashion brought out the rebel in everyone. Rock of all forms was the soundtrack of this decade and men and women were borrowing style ideas from each other.

And the hair was bigbigbig. Everyone had closer-to-god manes and a bad hair day simply meant flat hair.

And there were so many colors. All at one time. People were daring, people were bold. When it came to fashion, the only thing people of the time were afraid of was the lack of creativity.

And that's why I love it. I love the excessive makeup. I love the big hair. I love the rebellious music.

I love the 80s.

4. This awesome website.

I have never seen so many colours. So many clothes. So many things to buy.

I need to make a list of things to buy right now.

- A party top

- A skirt

- A party dress

- Shooze

- Black and red nail polish that lasts more than a month

- Scarf

- And THAT Chanel handbag.

And at this time my dear readers, I am totally inspired.

Cheers.

Shoot Me.

Right. Here.

This is a desperate signal to the world to SAVE ME.

Mayday mayday. My brain is dis-sin-te-gray-ting.

I asked for a holiday, yes. I asked for some peace away from the mental stresspool, yes.

But I did not ask to mentally melt away from total boredom.

And it's worse for me, I could actually pass out from boredom.

You guys know that, right?

Cheers.

Me, Myself and I.

The three worst friends in the history of friendships.

I don't know why I do this to myself. I don't know why I have this incessant need to think. Right about now, most of you will be closing your browser, blocking me on MSN and deleting my contact details from your phone before any of this gibberish leaves a mark in your head.

But it's too late. It's always too late. You have already met one of the most self-destructive personalities you've ever known and you seem to like me. And you read this blog. Because you think I'm a better person. Better than you. Better than I think I am. Better than what I am supposed to be.

But everything in this world is going to be a lie until the moment your brain dies. By which time the truth doesn't matter anymore.

Next post : Figure out why I am starting to blog like LXJ.

Anyway. Back to my unending quest of finding out why we do what we do.

The ability to think is a gift. You figure out things before they happen, you understand why things happen and you proceed in life knowing you have made some contribution to society.

And it is as much a gift as it is a curse. One big fat curse. Layed upon our shoulders as the biggest burden and ultimately the weapon of the downfall, of humanity. And what about those who have the permanent urge to think? Cursed from the moment they start. Because we all know we will never figure out the mechanics of our universe.

But they don't know this. So they think. They think so much that their brain wears out more and more each time they try, leaving a machine tired, broken and useless at the end of the line. Like a pill for a junkie, and alcohol for a drunk, thinking is their evening fix.

Their fatal addiction.

And this evening's thought brings me to something that is going to land me in alot of trouble. But I live dangerously - oh so dangerously - that I bring it up on this VERY public blog.

It's that friendship curse again. Where that wheel of fortune has spun itself to an indication of bad times ahead. The one which dictates that everyone you thought you cared about, changes your mind about them. The one that states that every plan you had made with them, has to be scrapped.

Specifically, I'm talking about that feared plateau in the friendship. Nothing excites you, and nothing depresses you about them. They behave terribly - and you understand. They arrange some special meeting with you - and it bores the life out of you. So much so, you'd rather be by yourself. You'd rather entertain yourself to a night alone. A night of thought.

A night of me, myself and I.

But you can't because they're your friends. They will be there when you need them. And they will be there when you want their help.

And that's just it. No excitement, no adventure, no rocky road of emotions. Everything has come to a perfect standstill, and there you are wading in a pool of static, desperately looking for a waterfall to get high on adrenalin.

But you wish for something different with them. You wish for a better response, a brighter view of the day, a renewed vigour for something exciting. And basically, something unpredictable. Someone who has no plans for the day, but ends up visiting all four corners of the earth by bedtime. Someone who loves the same things you do, and loves to do them with you. Someone who has the same respect for the same people and things. Someone who matches your intellect and understands every qualm, every thought, every ounce of gibberish that may pop out of your head. Someone who doesn't criticise, but wants you the way you are. Someone who knows just how bored you can get, and makes sure that you forget what boredom feels like.

Someone who is just like you.

And that person is your soulmate.

So what is a friend then? He's not your family, and not your soulmate. He doesn't give you the love your family gives, and he doesn't complete you the way your soulmate does. And he doesn't give you a no-fight-guaranteed relationship.

But I thought he was all that. I wanted him to be. So here I am, meeting as many new people as I can so I can join all of their heads together to form the perfect person.

It's frustrating. When people tell you not to try and change your friends and to accept them for who they are. To not pick out their faults and love them as a whole person. To not make a fuss for the small problems they create for you. To embrace the person as they should embrace you.

BUT WHY CAN'T I?

I'm a human being, and I'm not afraid to tell you that I want what I want. I want my friend to be perfect. I want my friend to understand me. I want my friend to respect me. I want my friend to be unpredictable. I want my friend to spare me the boredom. I want my friend to not spend time with me to talk about someone else. I want my friend with a bit of brain. I want my friend to care about me when I'm upset.

I want the perfect person.

But there is no perfect world. No perfect life. No perfect day. And no perfect person.

And I'm running around chasing a wild goose.

Cheers.

The Death Of A Legend.

Who will be missed by the world.


It's a funny thing, this paradox called death. How it happens, why it happens, and who it happens to. Even I, as much as I pretend to explain things in this blog, only make everything seem a little simpler by untying some of the knots, and perhaps creating new ones, but never fully solving the puzzle. The only answers we may have are from those who are not allowed to tell us, the dead.


The world suddenly changes when someone dies. When anyone dies, really. But what makes each death slightly different is the number of people who care. And how they care.


An entertainer dies, and the world goes mad.


Michael Jackson is more than an entertainer. He's a shaper. He moved entire communities just by being Michael. His legacy shaped generations and defined decades of music for the entire world population.

The album Thriller still remains the most successful album in music history, complete with a string of hit singles. He sold out concerts around the globe, even in the most obscure places, and his fans were an understatement to the word 'die-hard'. People worshipped him, like a leader of society. A literal Pied Piper of our generation, the pipe being his celebrated dance skills and impeccable vocals.


Who can forget the 'moonwalk' and the body slant in 'Smooth Criminal' and his kicks and swings and the total synchronised control of his limbs? No one. He owned the 80s, his most famous decade and stole glam rock and showed the rest how it was done.


And yet behind this success artists of our time can only imagine, was an enigma. A conflict of personas and a myriad of characters. Who you saw him as, was not who he was. Some people referred to him as a child in a man's body, while others simply labelled him as a freak.

We're all freaks in our own right; each fetish and idiosyncrasy being more different and weirder than the next. But it was his intense fame that made his behaviour seem so unheard of. It's just human nature, we have an issue with people being better than ourselves. So we beat them down and break them up mentally so they need every ounce of will left in them to put themselves back together.

Or they could just do drugs. Booze. Sex of any kind.

And this is how we create a legend. We blow their fame to such an incredible size, and then burst that bubble, leaving them to find parts of themselves so they can get back on their feet again.

And we laugh and sneer and call them names and conveniently ignore any valid explanations and create a following of hate.

So here it is then. Michael Jackson, from a child to man physically, had always been famous. And with an eternal inner child, he was even more so. He didn't need to die. We don't need to mourn. We didn't need to destroy his image in the public eye as we did. We didn't need to find anything wrong with him.

But as much as I'd like to debate this, he's dead. It's hard for me to say, because the most memorable videos of my early childhood were his. And we used to dance to his songs. And sing along. And for that reason alone, he shall be remembered as long as music is alive.

Rest in peace.

Cheers.

4 More Things.

Well, not really.

But let's continue.

Prom had ended a half hour before midnight, leaving me feeling ... well, no different. Just a little bit hungrier and a bit more bored. But it also came down to the moment of truth. The moment I had been waiting for since I had even realised I was going for this blah event. The moment that would determine how awesome this night would be for me.

So I danced away my worries for a little while to some random ethnic beats until the moment arrived.

To reveal my deepest darkest secret and stay in line with the law, or to keep it locked in and risk an embarassing conflict?

Hmm. A dilemma indeed.

It turned out you don't need ID to get the free pass, and I dutifully exchanged mine for the chance of a lifetime. Ooh, this was so exciting! I was holding a free illegal pass to one of the hottest nightclubs in town. Literally, this is the KING of fake IDs.

But WAIT. Another dilemma arose at this point. Might they need my real age at the entrance? Fuck. I might never be able to fulfill this. And I gazed at my free pass with the biggest puppy eyes.

So I manipulated this situation - I used a TEST subject. Namely a friend of mine old enough to enter the club. And she passed without them asking for any form of identity proof. Suddenly a little beam of hope surged through me.

You can do this, babe.

And I walked in ala Lady Gaga, unfazed by the imaginary camera flash. And I handed my free pass to the bouncer.

-Cue weird heartbeat sound-

He took it and looked away. Far away. And I walked through, got a free drink pass, a stamp on my wrist and a dream come true.

And from this point on I was drowning in ecstasy.

I walked up those wooden steps, and as I got to the top I could hear it. Louder and louder. Closer and closer. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it. I was near.

And once the bouncer let me through, I wanted to cry. I literally wanted to break down in the sea of people and bawl my eyes out.

Why? Because mama, I was home.

I had never felt so complete in my life. It was as if I had found a piece of myself I had left behind in the afterlife, or that had been taken away from me in my past life. It was as if I had found that little jigsaw piece that I needed so badly to complete my puzzle to happiness.

And I found it.

The leader of the crowd, aka resident DJ, was in this large black box spinning non-stop, and there was a literal sea of people in the pit jumping to the music. Sluts were gyrating against each other on platforms within the pit, and there was confetti and smoke and love in the air. And there were people (hot hot people) hanging off the balconies, and bouncing so hard to the beats. And the music, oh the music was so loud I could feel it in my heart. My heart was beating to the music. And there were flashing lights, green blue red purple white, all synchronised with the music. And people were making out and touching and dry humping and making love to the music and ...

I was so happy.

Just imagine that you just find out you're adopted and you have one night, just one night to meet your biological parents. Same thing. I should seriously live in a club. I could not stop dancing and waving my arms and sliding up and down walls. I was just so happy to be home.

Meanwhile I have found my future clubbing partner. Holla to you Brian. Same time next year, we're going back home, baby.

Anyway, the night had to end. My back and neck were screaming out, and I had already said goodnight to my feet a long time ago. I also had a very late (yet terribly early) curfew to make. I waltzed back into my house, physically drained and mentally pumped. With a memory for a lifetime.

One more year, baby.

Till I'm back home.

Cheers.