Return of the Lazy Author

I’m… back. That’s it. I just felt like posting on this blog again so there. Oh dear, I just checked my clock and it’s 2017 already. Fuck me.

Here are some life updates:

  1. One year closer to death. A.K.A. A-Levels.
  2. Somehow, I managed to croak my way to being a singer in my school’s Jazz Club.
  3. Finally, I became a conservation ambassador for the zoo, and to be honest, I volunteer there to impress foreign strangers for a self-esteem boost.
  4. Get Out is a really, really good horror film. Must watch.
  5. Just completed my very first junior college exams. Can’t wait to get the remedial classes’ schedule.
  6. Recently got hooked on The Sound of Your Heart, a Korean comedy webcomic. It never fails to make me audibly laugh in public (Oh the horror of attracting attention). I may try making comics again some time soon.
  7. To satiate my need for recklessness and (injudicious) adventure, I literally found a restaurant looking to hire on a Singaporean equivalent of Craigslist, WhatsApp-ed the employer a lengthy request to recruit me as a “kitchen apprentice”. Apparently, my good command of the English language and clever inclusion of “no pay needed” within my job application landed me my very first culinary gig. In fact, very first career position.

Me, screaming internally:

I want to go to culinary school. The Culinary Institute of America. 

I will show ’em. I will hone my knife skills, read Kitchen Confidential without getting intimidated, and do my homework to Gordon Ramsay swearing on loop. I will experiment in the falling-apart kitchen and memorise every cut of a cow, pig, sheep, horse, dog, cat, whatever.

Now that I have written this here, I will do it.

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Tuition Centres.

I went to the movie theatre a few days ago to catch Deepwater Horizon, and came across the first sign of the humanity’s impending demise-goddamn tuition centres. They are EVERYWHERE. It felt as if somebody snuck in a couple of tuition-centre-rabbits past airport security from an exotic land, and BOOM-they bred like wildfire and now we have a one in every corner, except they aren’t furry and they don’t have long ears.

The fact that it is a homework-churning factory  and a prison with weekly two-hour sentences isn’t the worst part of it all, no, it is the fact that there used to be a gaming arcade in its very location. 

Places of good old dazzling contraptions that fill children’s hearts with delight no longer have a place in this country today, and instead we submit to fulfilling standards of full GPAs and being scholarship-worthy.

Don’t get me wrong, though, I fully support the idea of helping children not doing as well in school to receive tuition or eager higher achieving kids to attain greater heights (jesus), but this isn’t the case here. Way too many parents send their kids for more than three tuition sessions per week, as they feel pressured to do so with the increasing number of tuition centres and stress placed on excelling in school. The thing is, these parents think that the more tuition their child gets, the better their grades will be, which is a sad myth. Now I can ramble on and on  about this issue, but I shall spare you from enduring my frustration.

When I peered into the uninspiring sterile reception area of the tuition centre (yes, a bloody reception area), the immaculate counters and sofa with edges too sharp to be appealing to twelve year olds made my blood boil. I then proceeded to make  the ugliest face at the receptionist through the glass, terrifying enough to make anybody require therapy. Yes, fucker, I’ll make you spend all that dirty money you made out of torturing children on your medical needs, guess you won’t be able to purchase that hot red Ferrari you saw in CarBuyer after all. What a tragedy. 

 

Til’ Death Do Us Part (Or Food Poisoning)

I attended a wedding lunch last Sunday. Correction: I was forced to attend a wedding lunch Sunday because it so happened that the invitation card my father received was addressed to Mr Han and Family. OH, what I would’ve given to not be my father’s daughter for one day, though I’m sure he would accept anything for a teenage pain in the ass to disappear.

A few years ago, this young sprout would have been overjoyed to be attending a wedding- the impressive fairy tale ballroom filled with dapper guests, the towering white fondant cake with intricate icing laces, the adorable couple in their best gown and suit giving a wonderfully witty speech and toast.

Ha. Not in this town. It was nothing but a dull, rehearsed affair. Rowdy friends of the bride and groom made up half of the party and the other half of the discounted hotel function room filled with relatives that you vaguely remember from that family gathering that happened at that time and at that place.

I fished out my kindle reader like a pro from my mother’s handbag and returned to The Picture of Dorian Gray, but still paid sufficient attention to the chattering at our table to know that my cousin sister was not going to university but instead planning on running a fashion blog shop, followed by various other gossip about an uncle that became obese and  then quarreling about who should take my grandmother to dialysis on the weekdays.

The bride and groom were no prince and princess either. Their kiss was a brief peck on the lips, their jokes were mediocre and they simply looked as if they wanted everything to be over quickly. What else was wrong with this romantic ceremony? Many things. The waitstaff’s dance number was not good, the food was ordinary and several balloons burst, almost giving the fairly large elderly population cardiac arrests.

What was even worse was that everybody knew that it was not a good wedding. The awkward silences screamed so. I have a terribly big family, and many relatives who are at that age. I dread the next invite that says save the date. More like save yourselves.