Interesting day...

You know... I was feeling a little blue this evening...
Life happens that way sometimes eh?
But I have my own ways of coping...
At least... I think I'm coping...So I made this dictionary...
It was kinda mini... kinda cute.
Well... I thought so.
But the amazing thing was...
As I turned from blue to shining gold...
In temperament that is...

I noticed something about the dictionary...
Besides the brilliant, golden aura...
Do you see what I see?
I was left lost for words...

Had to find a real dictionary...

Addition...

Can you solve the following problems?

My Stationery + The Lamb =

Hijack

My Breakfast + The Cat =

Sinister

The Salmon + My Hungry =

Zero

Hare-raising...

...is actually theoretically, relatively, Einsteinally easy. Find a hare in a burrow and poof it with a smoke machine! The burrow, not the hare. Needless to say the hare will be out in a hair's breath. I mean a hare's breath. But then again it probably isn't going to breathe much if it sees the smoke coming in... Poor hare. How dare you! You monster!

Who, me?

YES, you!

But after that hair-raising adventure, or hare-raising if you prefer, is over, just lie back and watch the laundry peel and the paint dry. Darn, it works with the paint either way but the laundry is a one way street. Laundry dry, paint peel. Paint dry but laundry no peel. Orange peel. Citrus goodness. Tastes terrible though.

But suppose, my feathery friend that you were a duster... would you dust blackboards or board the Black Dust? Go on an Atlantic cruise... cross the Atlantic with the Titanic... what do you get? I wonder...

Halfway.

But anyway, whole or half-heartedly, the chickens wait for no man. Like time... but chickens would probably eat thyme. Wouldn't they be happy hens then? And what happy happy hens they'd be. Probably go on a hen's night after that. Come back married the next morning. The morning after! JENG JENG JENG. Take a vapodrop, clear your throat. Hem hem. Koff koff.

It's cold tonight. But don't worry, it's not stormy though it surely is dark. Ever heard of a bright night? Ever heard of a bright knight? I didn't think so! Typical, stereotypical, pitiable, mythical stupidity. Horse poo, I say! Flying horse! Load up the scalpels, pack up the bags, pick up the trucks and rearrange the sentence. It still won't make sense.

My fingers flow across the board at the speed of fingers flowing across the board at the speed of fingers flowing across the board at normal speed. No error there. None I say! It's actually quite hard to type fast when you're cold. That's because I'm warm blooded! If I was cold blooded... no difference. Possibly slower. Reptilian even. Eggs. Chickens. Circle of life. Asante sana squash banana. Puree.

Pisang kemek goreng or pisang goreng kemek? One is a squashed delicacy, the other is road-kill. I can't tell the difference either. Like a multitude of untold stories. The secrets of the world unfolded! They're important! I know it! And I care... just as much as this:

*ppptt*

Dammy.

Woohoo!!

Whee!!

The swine return! No pool of water or legion of demons can hold us back from proclaiming the good news that Mr. Yap Wei Xiong has quoted a certain Mr. Khoo Teng Xiang on his xanga page. Intriguing no? Check it out: www.xanga.com/ahxiong (not ahxiang har... don't go and spell wrong).

Well, if you don't check out what the quote is you will never know what the tribal council has spoken. Yes I am a council in myself. Aren't I just the greatest?

Apparently, what I said sums up the whole First Year Vet community. Perhaps perhaps. I was quite honest about it when I said it. Bleah.

So anyway, exams are coming and we're all freaked out by anatomy! Joy... You know... this is possibly the first "normal" blog post I've ever posted... that's amazingly... sad. But anyway, where was I? Toothpicks, that's right. Dog's made out of skinny purple toothpicks appeared on Flinders Street just after a man was electrocuted from train surfing. Or was it surf training? I don't right know... I don't rightly appear to be in my right mind...

Pika infiltration!! Eek. Eek. Eek. Eek. Eel. Eek. Eek. Bet you missed the slippery blighter in there! Then again maybe you didn't. Watch out for his bite. The sun don't shine where the eels bite fishing line. Or so the saying goes.

Stay away from my coffee!! How else am I going to do my exam paper? Eat it?

Which reminds me ... 2 weeks till exams!! Awesome!

All the best to everyone! May the hogs be with you...

Another Boar??

Not really... more like a totally different journey.

Check it out and say what you think.

http://toddlewithgod.blogspot.com

Oh and yes I have accepted the Lord in my life.

Swine will not be affected by this! No Legion shall drown my herd of pigs!! GRAARRGGHH

Back In Action

It's been a while since I picked up my pace and set myself back to the keyboard for some blogging. But now the keyboard is back:

The keyboard returns...

And I'm back if my life doesn't spiral out of control:

Tightly, neatly bound...

And if my notes are in order and all the studying doesn't wind me up so tight I snap. Unlikely... since the pen is mine and not the other way around:

The Xiang is mightier than the pen...

Let me tell you about vet school.
There is this guy.I guess he's average:
Good-looks: average
Intelligence: average
Compassion: average
Faith: average (but he believes)
Everything else: average
Humility: average (?)

That guy is me. It's been a long slog from the 3rd of March till the 25 of April (today) but there is nothing else I'd rather be doing. And no matter the circumstance I will be loving animals and loving working with them till the end of days:

Then end might come and might look like this but the veterinary profession will stand in me...

But let me sketch a day in my life...

Apart from those days of being dragged around by horses, seating sheep and straddling pigs, it's been theory, theory, theory. And more to come. How I relish those days out at the clinic just having my hands on the furry/wooly buggers, my hands in the mouths of "awd bovines a'slaverin."

The phrase 'information overload' is an understatement in some senses but the odd case study always serves to wake you up in a jiffy. Content-wise the material is understandable and interesting though cramped and tinned like sardines. The years are packed, they say. Believe it.

On any normal day we bumble into the VRI and sit in the lecture theatre for another four-hour series of lectures. Lecturers shuffle in, deliver and leave. We're stuck, pigs in the mud, thrown into the deep end right from the start. Aorta, pulmonary artery, erythropoiesis, the enteric nervous system, Angus cattle, Herefords, Holstein-Friesians, a bay, a roan and Thoroughbreds abound. Sometimes it feels like a noose, the knot ever ready to drop:

Care to stick your head in there?

But it's not so bad really. Friends are around to lend a hand, lecturers are nice and the coffee is free. Get on top and get ahead. The kinks smoothen out then... otherwise it's rough and tough like a bad beef cow.

Keep the work up and the sailing is smooth...

So we sit there frying our brains, evaporating the useless, digesting the 'nutritious' and on flows the morning. Do I keep writing though I'll miss most of the speed-lecturer's information? Do I draw this? Do I not? Do I need to know this? The questions pile up on the patient in the consulting room. The going is slow but steady and lunch is round the corner.

And then it's here. The hour of relief. Our kiosk opens and instant noodles flood out of the cupboard. Our source of stomach-fill. Like grass to a cow. Cheap, unhealthy goodness. Alternatively there's the food you bring for yourself, more expensive and out-sourced:

Prawn rolls anyone?

And many do just that. Microwaves and toasters run like food production factories, churning out lunches, pre-packed, to the masses. But suddenly the hour is over and all that is left are the remnants of meals and relief:

Is it over already? I haven't finished my chilli...

A four hour lecture chain means a practical class in the afternoon. A dissection, a nerve preparation, a muscle stimulation or an afternoon staring into microscopes getting dizzy. The last of these is often the most tedious though eventually any of the practical classes begins to get on your tired nerves. And the nerves of the dog being dissected:

One wrong cut and this dog's a nervous wreck...

Don't get me wrong, the practical classes are most definitely exciting and beneficial. Often enjoyable. But after a whole day of class, I begin to feel my brain lagging behind my eyes. At about 4.30, patience can wear thin but we all bear with it and go on. For the betterment of ourselves and the animals we'll one day treat. But before leaving the dissecting theatre one more thing must be done. Wash your hands and dry them because:

And you better believe it...

Finally the day is done. Lab coats are ripped off and sighs of relief accompany the cacophony of moaning and groaning. Bags are zipped up conclusively and determinedly. Time to go.

All packed and ready...

One final step. Out to the tram stop to wait. The day draws to a close. The sun sets as I wait for the tram thinking of the day. Wondering what tomorrow will bring. Because I can't remember my ever-changing timetable.

The end...

Watching...

...the little sparrow as it flits and flutters along the street. I sit, watching the little sparrow, hopping, skipping, jumping from bread crumb to bread crumb along the sidewalk. What can you do but admire the beautiful creature, striving to live in the face of adversity? And yet is it not expected of all creatures save certain men to continue one's existence in this world? All save certain men.

But this sparrow is a special one. Mingling in the crowds of people. Socially active. In and out trying to find it's niche in the rush of everyday hustle and bustle. Along the street it dances, weaving in and out, avoiding the stamping feet, the black leather shoes and high-heels, sneakers and slippers. Dancing. Once in a while it chirps its little call, almost shyly, raising its head, opening its beak in small song. It has often walked down this street before. Yet the song it sings everyday is a new one and the dance of life is strong. It dances for joy, it sings with faith that today it will find bread. Or rice for that matter.

And suddenly this sparrow has an identity, a face, a body, a gender. She flutters around, sometimes half-heartedly but always with a distinct purpose, with determination. Perhaps she has been in courtships uncounted for such is the way of life. Yet these things cease to matter when I look upon her so joyful and free. Always free.

Today the weather is good, her feathers remain unruffled, preened and prissy. Though tomorrow might be wet and gloomy, always she lives through and through. By and by her luck will change and the sun will shine again. The sparrow has been through harder times and never was she broken and defeated beyond revival. Yet always the little figure evokes a sense of want. The want to show special care and attention, to cater for her every need, her every feeling, her every desire. But who am I to know a sparrow's heart's desire or to boast of it if I did. Who am I to put words in her beak. Nought but a simple boy.

My eye is on her. The sparrow. And I watch as she comes closer to me, coming to receive the bread I give with love and care. She comes so close, away from the crowds in which she mingled, to take the little comfort I offer. The temptation is to keep her, to feed her till she stays, for I would give her security in this harsh world. Yet how can one chain this little creature, so joyful, so amiable, adorable with any bonds of metal, string or worse. Bonds of love. But the sparrow chirps its delightful song again and my heart is filled with joy. Had I my flute I'd play Mozart with definite pinkness in my music.

But again I sit and I watch and I think. I wonder if she'll fly away, to mingle again and never return. For how could one cage this beautiful thing when so joyful it is, so free. Always free. Always free.

Ponderings...

...while sitting in a carpark. You know, once in a while you start to wonder, "Why DO people drink alcohol?" Then you realise, that wasn't the important question anyway. What was really important was why you were sitting in a carpark and thinking about such things in the first place. Then you get to the circular arguments that MS Excel hates so much and I hate Excel for hating. Why do hamsters eat goats cheese anyway??
I mean, it's not like there's no lactose in it for the lactose intolerant. Like pancakes... who has ever seen a pancake eat goats cheese? Those insane, raise your hand. *raises hand... to get the shotgun off the shelf* Ah well, that's not so important either. What's really important is...
...
...
"World peace".
Yes we have a Miss Whatever/Wherever/Whoever invading our public discussion. And goldfish swim around in circles and say the grass is greener on the other side of the fishbowl. And forget they said it 3 seconds later. Stately. Like a ceiling fan juggling chainsaws.
Actually, what's the point of juggling chainsaws when juggling glass shards is even more impressive? Especially if you're dressed in chainmail from the tip of your nose to the ends of your fingers. Like a knight in shining armour. From a long time ago...

Ride to Camelot Sir Knight and partake in the tournament of entrance. The Round Table really was gigantic wasn't it? Almost as big as some people's brain cavity. Note: Cavity... not actual brain. Measurements susceptible to paralax error while titrating mushy mango puree from a coconut sieve.

May you find happiness this Christmas.

My Writing Is Getting More Meaningless...

...as the days go by. But anyway, in an unplanned, unexpected, unintentional tribute to the late Luciano Pavarotti...

Opera

Perhaps it was her tone. Yes, that was what fired his rocket, blew his top, wrung the neck of his patience and all that jazz. Every so often something bursts your bubble, pushes you over the brink, makes you red-faced… clichés like that. But he’d done it this time. Way over the top, rationality thrown somewhere over the rainbow. Poor little Dorothy has to put up with a lost rationale. Lucky her. He had to deal with a guilty conscience. A very guilty conscience. Guilty in more ways than one.

It all started with a cliché. Much like that one. He never did like opera. The high-pitched, high frequency vibratos would very quickly grate the cheese of his nerves into miniscule flecks perfectly sized for pizza topping. So much for the prissy Prima Donna strutting around the stage. Just another modern, real life Carlotta. Then again, the resonating basses of rotund, bearded masculinity never did much for his ‘calm demeanor’ either. ‘Twas all a façade, the passive face he wore whenever he was dragged inevitably to opera after opera. Like the similarly inevitable “I really enjoyed that!” nonsense he spouted after each one.

His thoughts were going off at a tangent with an angle ‘panic’ to the normal. Illogical trigonometry was the least of his worries right now. What mattered was how to cover up the crime, create a believable alibi, do all those things that the criminal did in Film Noir detective movies. It was either that or grab his imaginary ‘Tommy gun’ and make a last stand. His heart was pounding in his chest, like in those bad novels you read when you wanted to remind yourself of all the badness of novel clichés. Oxymoronic. He was in deep figurative mud.

Her voice was still playing in his head. The tone that stoked the flames of anger ever present, surreptitious in the back of his mind. It was distracting. Very distracting. Just thinking about it made the hairs on his neck rise. Well they would have if he was particularly hairy around the area. But he wasn’t.

He decided to give up thinking and make that last stand. He began laying his case. He would plead temporary insanity. Everyone snapped eventually. Some more violently than others. But he was prepared to face the music. Fervently hoping it wouldn’t be opera, he gathered the remains in his hands and steeled himself for the inescapable consequences. Oh, he was in deep water. Deep boiling water. No. Boiling mud to stick to the previous analogy. All because he lost his head and stifled the voice of that infernally singing pest. With a hammer. Smashed her along with the CD player. Who wouldn’t after having to listen to the same recording of Madame Butterfly for the third time that day. Here comes the opera-loving wife…

After An Extreme Hiatus...

...that I'm not particularly proud of, and a very long wait (I'm sorry Becky) I'm finally posting the spontaneous poem co-written by Rebecca Wong aka Becky (established poet) and yours truly. The amazing power of MSN right there. We've got two endings and an illustration (to come). Vote for the ending you prefer and send in ideas for the illustration.
Enjoy. And remember....

Curiosity Kills The...
Chickin,
Stuck its head too far,
Down came the cleaver,
A headless chickin ran into a bar.

After downing a beer,
Down the road it ran,
Running hard, directionless…
It ran into a man.

And with one outrageous cry,
In a yellow polka-dotted tie,
He reached down, fingers wide,
And ripped clean off a feathered chickin thigh.

Now what happened next,
Lil’ chickin did not expect,
In fact, headless,
Dear chickin did not suspect,
That the crazy lunatic gobbled up the rest!
But sadly, his yellow polka-dotted tie,
In the end was bloody and messed.

And so lil’ chickin did not survive,
To peck on corn or do the jive,
And the thigh that was ripped…
In sauce it was dipped…
And if you pass KFC,
You might see,
Lil’ chickins destiny.

Bex N TX (1.9.2007 <--- Long time hor...)

Voting is closed and the ending is where it is.
But since I like the other one more...

Indeed most thought it was a tragedy.
And of the thigh that was ripped...
In thick sauce it was dipped,
To be served to his whole jolly family.

*grins evilly*

L O L

Looking On Leaving
Life's Orange Light
Licking One's Lollipop
Like Other Loons.

Live Our Lives
Listed Or Listless
Layers Of Lime
Looking Out Lucidly.

Lest One Lose
Love Of Life
Little Orange Lamps
Lead One's Legs.

Links Of Lunacy
Lurk On Lines
Leading Ourselves Left
Like Oblivious Lemmings.

Live Or Leave
Living Or Lifeless
Lied Or Lying
Lamenting One's Loneliness.

Lawak Orang Lucu
Laughing Out Loud
Life's Opaque Luminescence
Limps On Lamely.

Neither Fiction Nor Non-fiction Be, Strictly Speaking.

Um hi. Haven't posted for a while but here's another bit of writing that is too long to be a proper post. Read at your own leisure.

The Man

I'll try to post shorter stuff next time.

An Essay...

A little something for those who wish to read. Written last year, some people have read it before:

My Interior Monologue.

Enjoy. Maybe? Just a bit? Please?

It's a bit too long to post as a post.

A Girl's Point On View...

In the cold wind-blustered streets of the metropolis, a matchbox girl approaches you slowly, shyly with small steps shuffling in your direction. Being kind hearted (as you are, aren't you?) you slow to stop, comfort the matchbox girl with a smile and reach for your moneybag. As the girl reaches you, you see her little face, world-weary yet with the still blossoming softness of youth. You begin to ask, "How much for a box, my dear?" getting only as far as "How..." before she snaps a match along her matchbox, lighting it, its small warm glow reflecting the heart of its bearer, both puny against the winter chill.

It strikes you as odd that the girl, whose comfort depends on wasting not that precious commodity, might strike up a match for a complete stranger but her next question draws your thoughts away.

"Sir, what colour do you see?"

You see the orange of flame and the blue of complete combustion. You see the blackness of the soot rising against the paleness of the white buildings that surround you. You see the oily brown of the matchstick. You tell her so, quite bemused by the raggedly adorable child staring at you with questioning eyes. And the child speaks again.

"Sir, are the colours you see the same as those that I see?"

That is the girl's point on view. Is the blue you see the same colour as she sees? Perhaps she sees what you would call red but by convention calls it "blue". Perhaps her orange is your purple and your brown her green. In that case only by convention are they the same colour.
Perplexed and embarassed to be so troubled by that innocent question, you forcefully reach for you coins and drag out twice the cost of 5 boxes of matches. Staring her in the eye, you open your hands into hers and close her tiny fingers over the coins. A mass larger than her cupped palms can comfortably hold.

"Get yourself something warm, girl," you say, "I have no answer for you this day."

She looks on at you in wonder and gratitude. Perhaps fearful you might change your mind, she laughs happily and runs as only a child can run. For now, in her mind the world is all right.

And yet yours is all topsy-turvy.

You stroke the new bristle at your chin and wonder. Do we all see the same colours? When I look in the mirror, do I see what others see when they look upon me? Might I maybe look like a rock and yet be recognisably me to the other people around me?

Is the world I see the same world that you see? Perception and interpretation tie together in a dead knot of reason. What we see is what we interpret. What we interpret is what we see. Would that you could all see the world as I do that we might understand each other better.

Is the world I see the same world that you see?

Giving Her His Head...

'Twas a love,
Destined to be.
'Twas her love,
That was the difficulty.

He sought her so,
His heartache physical pain.
Where she was he didn't know,
Only his purpose kept him sane.

Tragic love stories abound,
Nature is a cruel mistress.
Never was there a love so profound.
Never was there a lover so against digress.

No, he searched for her.
High and low he searched for her.
And then by chance contact was made.
A silhouette beautiful,
Against the sunlight beginning to fade.

But she did not love him yet.
Try as he might, his heart so set,
She wholly refused any such union,
For without a dowry
How could there be a junction.

But then the male lover,
Spied a dragon fly by a flower.
And so crept the young brave,
And so struck he, hard and true
And in the name of his love, the dragon he slew.

With stubborn purpose he carried the carcass,
Presenting it before his maiden.
With such a suitable dowry for a lass,
How could any refuse their union.

And so they were joined,
The boy now a man.
And by now raging was the fire in his loins,
And he fell upon his bride as only a hero can.
At least, that was the plan.

But alas this tale is another tragedy,
An almost Romeo and Juliet story,
For Romeo the praying mantis,
Fell afoul of his maiden Juliet's kiss.

And so he passed on his gene,
But as they kissed she bit him clean,
And left him bereft, left him dead,
Left him his body,
Without his head.

What I've Done...

So yes. It happened. In the blink of an I. Eye should have known better. No wait that was wrong. 'Twas my eye that blinked and I who should have known better. No matter, minor things like these cease to have significance in the face of tragedy.

And so the bitter wind blows the clichés into my head. Filling the sails of my mind's ship as it plows through the waves of shame, despair and regret. So follow the clichés like dolphins to a fisherman's boat and so they are trapped in the net of my creative stagnation and absence of proper substance so as to be less blasé to you. The unlucky one. The reader of this journal of emotional void. And yet it is not a void, rather a deep dark pit with spikes and razor lined walls. A pit in which lie a multitude of flesh eating cockroaches and their voracious larvae intent on feeding upon the bowels of man. The hunks of manflesh. Bipedal meat.

But I digress. In my hour of darkness the distractive intrigue of a 'pit of death', by no means bottomless, serves to bring my mind away from the very topic that drives me to convert this post to emotive rambling. However I must emphasise that this post is not merely a personal one. Nor is it by any means an "emo" post however much it might seem so at the moment. Bear with me or bare with me. Actually, give me warning before you do so that I can close my eyes. Much appreciated.

It started off with a footstep. One footstep that would forever stifle the life of that poor innocent organism. The little thing merely trying to live in this harsh world of UV radiation, free Al cations and the occasional lack of sunlight. But it had persevered. Nobody knew how long it strove to live, to pass on the information so terribly important, the burden it carried. What was that information? Now nobody will know. All because of a footstep. One single footstep.

The crunch was the punchline. The culmination of all the endured hardship. Poor little thing it stood no chance. With that crunch came the end of the toil of generations, the failure of the masses of individuals that lived and died such that this creature, this thing, could pass a message to the future. A message of hope to the masses, to the collected collection of its kind. A message never to be sent. Gone in the blink of an eye. With the lowering of a foot and a slight crunchiness.

And so befell a great tragedy. However that's not the worst of it. Worse is the fact that it could have been avoided. What I wouldn't give that I might take back my actions, neither purposeful nor in hot blood, and let the messenger through to do its work. I doomed a species. I doomed a race. I doomed a provider for perhaps the simplest of food chains that grows into the most significant of food webs. I doomed it and by doing so, I have doomed us all. Such is the Butterfly Effect. Such is the fate of the world. Repent not for you will pass anyway. Cry not for it will be to no avail. Noone can save you now.

"Except perhaps Christine," you say. Nay, even Miss Daaé can do nothing.

But now as eukaryotic macrolife draws to its end, the world deserves to know the truth. You, dear reader and the rest of the visibly living world deserve to understand that it was by no group effort that your existence draws to a close. No. It was solely an individual action. An accident as it were. I can only say that I hope, for your sake, that death is all that you expect it to be. Now, mass extinction faces us all and thus marks the renaissance of the evolution of bacteria to more large organisms such as you and me are now but not much longer. Perhaps they will be more perfect. It matters not anymore to us who are about to die.

Yes, it all happened because of me. Because I acted without thought. Because I stepped off the pavement in carelessness. Because I killed that important little thing before it could be pollinated. Because I stepped on a flowering daisy.

Musings In Bed And Train

Amidst the murmuring of the common sheep, each one of the concious bipeds hears the faint humming of life. It is a tune that runs through and through leading the bipeds towards an unknown goal. What is the goal of life? It would seem at first glance that the ultimate goal of what we call animals is to reproduce and keep alive that hum, that natural song. But if we merely live to reproduce then there is really not much point in living the way we do. If life's goal is to keep life going then it is but a mere attempt to survive. What then is the point of evolution?

The bacteria say, "We survive quite well, thank you very much. We don't need you to give us more habitable habitats, though they are rather nice. However, honestly speaking, feel free to bugger off because we've been here and will be here a lot longer than you fragile bipeds and your 'higher level' of conciousness."

And so we run along scientifically, superstitiously, morally, politically and by doing this we say we are distinct for mere 'animals', mere 'beasts'. "Our life has purpose". But does it really? What is the purpose?

Ask a parent and they'd probably say, "We want to make enough money to support our children and ourselves till we die."

I wouldn't know, that's just speculation. But doesn't that come back to finding a means of keeping life going?

Maybe the goal is to: Live a fruitful life by helping others within our means etc etc etc.

Helping others is to help them to survive isn't it? Do we always come back to the point of keeping the 'circle of life' going?
Or maybe the goal is to "Unravel The Secrets Of The Universe"! But doesn't everything the unconciously, so self-concious bipeds do have to have a practical use? "Curiousity killed the cat" they say. Some would say, "Curiosity has killed us all."

Would unravelling the secrets of the universe fulfill that "oh so wonderful" dream of the naive to live forever? Again keeping life going seems to be rather important though ultimately rather pointless.

I call individual eternal life a dream of the naive because I say there is no point in eternal life. Yes it would be nice to have the time to do everything there is to do, see everything there is to see. But would you share that sip of immortality? If you don't share it wouldn't you not stare at other's deaths every day? To watch the ones you love die to be replaced by similarly mortal loves is more of a curse than a blessing. What is complete knowledge when you're all alone? A veil?

And yet there's more. To be so "blessed" with eternal life (and so independantly fulfill nature's purpose), comes coupled with eternal aging. How many centuries of knowledge can make up for creaking bones, leathery skin and assorted health problems. Sure you can't die, but you can sure as hell be in quite a bit of pain.

Thus advocates of eternal life might turn to a different phrase: Eternal Youth. Again, would you share this eternal youth? Would you rather watch those around you growing old and dying while you remain spry, youthful and 'blessed'. If you choose to share it, who would you share it with? Surely it becomes even more of a curse once you share it. First you share it with a partner, then maybe your children and theirs and their children's children, in the end you have a race of "immortals".
What's so bad about that? Isn't that good? Isn't it easier now that we don't have to worry about dying before we fulfill what we wish?

Well, once you fulfill EVERYTHING, what will you do then? After a while everything will have lost it's flavour, just as even now there are young-ish people so bored with the world around them and life in general that "been there, done that" prevails and wonder is lost to all but the children and those who are able to overcome the deadening routine of life itself.

What is the purpose of life? Why live forever?

Why question all this? Why why?

Because.

Singalong Song... With A Rhyming Pattern AABB

Bird. Sitting on my windowsill,
Waiting for the crack to fill,
Airing out my drawers,
Staring at the flowers, towers, lawn mowers.

Oops fail,
Fairytale tailed, highway rollercoaster spinny gale
force wind, spinning down the subway,
Kicking up the bloody ham.

Bits of lettuce up a tree,
Have some, it's all free,
Show the Asian mentality,
And amuse yourself and me. Tiddlee dee.

Cow and chicken, moose and duck,
Sometimes you really just want to say f-ish,
But it doesn't work not verbally,
And sadly haha hehe hoho eating a cherry.

Wonder dummy and super supper fairy,
Chocolate bunny and the ever useful dunny,
Cut the crap, get a life,
Cut it with a butter knife.

And hope the smell don't last,
It might put you on a fast,
Gasping, asphyxiation,
Playing in my imagination.

Epiglottis,
Rhymes with tortoise.
Aren't I good?
Eat me for food.

Tax that lazy pyloric sphincter,
Just try not to get a splinter..
...cell.
Did that ring a bell?

That was lame,
One step closer to fame.
Easter eggs in a video game,
Like scratches on your picture frame.

Run in circles, till you fall,
When once you were standing tall.
Screaming mushrooms and lightsaber hilt,
Counter the Leaning Tower's tilt.

All this rhyming's such a chore,
Makes me feel so much like a wh-odunit
in the making.
What with all the faking and money taking.

Haven't got randomly stuck yet,
But don't worry don't fret,
I will in the end,
But not before I display my tend...

...encies to waffle on and on,
Ice cream, truffles and a bit of corn.
Food here food there,
Wonder where my underwear...

...has gotten to,
In Super Mario Bros. 2.
Lot's of colours everywhere,
blue, green, black, red, yellow.

Hah I escaped my own trap,
And I didn't even need a map.
Now if I'd used the colour orange.
How strange...

I'm still not stuck.
Wonderful. Stupendous. Wallow in the muck.
Enough edits you're bored to death,
Just don't drink any meth... (...ylated spirits)

Which Came First...

...the chicken or the egg? It was the egg ok? You want to argue we can argue on MSN.
...the hare or the tortoise? His-story tells us the tortoise won. But only because the hare wasn't smart enough to use his bad guy resources.
First in the "The Hare should have..." series
1) ...called the Bunny Mafia
Hope it appeals to some people. Another one coming whenever I manage it. BUT FIRST!!
LALAALA doing the funny dance of love and happiness. Flower POWER!!! In your dreams. And what dreams they must be...


The Hare should have... 1 by ~1nsAn3ss-Th3-aX on deviantART

Tell Me...

How come so few people realise what Jostein Gaardner points out? The chances of each one of us arising were amazingly minute... Just think, the number of you ancestors rises exponentially every generation back you go. Now if even one of them hadn't survived to pass on their genes you wouldn't be here. Does that make you value your life more? And how about that of other peoples?
Don't fool yourself thinking you're not special. Neither should you believe that life isn't worth it. Think about the sacrifices made just so you could be standing or sitting or whatever position you're in right now. Think of how lucky you are to be alive.
Stop being depressed there's too much of that nonsense around.
Kalau apa-apa terjadi saya akan jari kamu.
HA HA lawak kamu memang berjagung.
Think.