I’m writing this entry to take a break from… er… writing. Anyway, just finished tidying up some ridiculously prolix brochure for some ridiculously soporific IT client. I recently learnt these words (I’m sure you know which ones) so bear with me. This coming hot on the heels of a mobile phone brochure I had to work on over the Christmas weekend followed by some case study to be done over the New Year weekend. Apparently, in this agency, “holiday” simply means working from home rather than in the office. But like all profit-driven organisations, this is just their way of “maximising productivity” and “optimising cost-efficiency”. Ah… the joy of using words that have more than their fair share of syllables. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t been forced to adopt the IT tone of voice, and been allowed to use the words “cheap” and “good” more often, that damned brochure would’ve been half its length. But no point being bitter. What’s done is done. There actually came a point where I CTRL-Ced the word “efficiency” just so I could CTRL-V it in the appropriate thousand or so places. Now, that’s what I call true efficiency.

I just realised that this entry will make no sense to anyone who hasn’t read IT stuff. Good for you then.

26 and counting.

Turned 26 whopping years old over the weekend so congratulations to me for surviving yet another year. Special thanks must go to Pat for the wonderful weekend and also the Borders voucher. I will now proceed to drive my mother crazy by adding even more books to my non-existent bookshelf. Thanks also to those of you who remembered my birthday and chose to wish me well through the wonderfully inexpensive means of SMS and MSN. And also not forgetting those of you who said I still look 18. Nice try. I will try to convince the lot of you of the same when it’s your turn. Right about now, I should launch into some philosophical rant about how I may be older but none the wiser etc but I won’t. I have better things to write; like this blasted brochure.

Dear cad,

It could all have been so beautiful, you and her. But no, you had to go and screw everything up. Probably like what you’ve done to most things worth treasuring in your life.

It’s a simple fact. Gambling isn’t for the ill-disciplined. And it certainly isn’t for bums without an income. You didn’t realise that, did you? And so you went and blew thousands of dollars on something as trivial as a football match without any means of settling your own debts. Then what did you do? You went and begged her to bail your sorry ass out. She did. Of course she did. She’s always been there for you.

Sure, you’ve got a job now, you might argue. But where’s all the money going to? Paying up your debts to other people, that’s where. So much so that you’ve got nothing left for yourself and guess whom you’re living off once again. Guess who’s there to pay for your food, drink and entertainment.

But that’s not the real problem. We all make mistakes after all. The real problem is refusing to learn from them. The real problem is biting the hand that’s trying to haul you up from the shithole you’ve dug yourself into. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, you dense bastard.

Alright, you’ve been betting in smaller amounts. I’ll give you that. But surely even you understand that unless the habit is stamped out completely, there’s always the chance that it will come back to take over your life once again. This is especially true for someone with a will as malleable as yours.

And to compound your general failure as a decent human being, there’s your treatment of her. So far, she’s been your safety net both emotionally and financially. But how have you repaid her? Is being a paranoid, possessive asshole your idea of gratitude? Is throwing tantrums when she stays out a bit later or verbally abusing her over the most trivial of matters your means of saying thank you?

All this just reflects your deep-seated insecurity. You know that just about any other guy on the street can give her more happiness than you can ever dream of. You’re worried that one of these days, she may just see you for all that you are. And then she’ll be gone. But so what? That just means you’ll have to find someone else to lean on. Not a problem for the likes of you.

You aren’t, however, solely to blame for her suffering. It’s partly her fault as well because no matter what you throw at her, she keeps coming back to fight another round. You can tell her to “fuck off” in the morning, make some useless apology in the evening and she’ll be back by your side only to endure another tirade a few days later. Perhaps she’s hoping that this time will be different. Perhaps she’s thinking sooner or later you will change for the better. But people like you don’t change, do you? It’s a personality disorder. All you do is leach off other people and leave them torn and tattered by the roadside.

There is a ray of light, however. And that is that, finally, she’s tiring. Finally, she’s talking of giving up. Every time you fell her with one of your nonsensical outbursts, she’s taking longer and longer to beat the count. It may takes months or even years but one day, she won’t get up. One day, she will “fuck off” like you told her to and never come back. And on that day, we will celebrate because it will be the best day of her life.

Sin City

My agency’s D&D is tonight. The theme for this year is “Sin City” which means that all and sundry are supposed to turn up dressed as pimps, whores, sluts, gigolos and a range of other characters who habitually insert or have things inserted into them. Therefore, a large proportion of my colleagues will have to procure costumes that reveal various lumps of flesh while others will simply arrive as themselves. To further fan the flames of debauchery, we have each received a party pack consisting of a condom, a pair of handcuffs, a single latex glove (doctor, doctor?) and a pamphlet on some STD. Though really, copious amounts of alcohol is all it takes.

And the mirth continues.

My colleagues still haven’t stopped laughing at me. I was reminded today that I had in fact produced TWO bags of vomit in the cab; one which I carted merrily home and another which had to be tied up and disposed of very carefully by Sabrina, to whom I am now dearly indebted. And apparently there are pictures. Man, do I hate technology now. The one I’ve seen so far is of a girl standing over my slumped-on-coffeeshop-table-self looking mightily happy, as if I was a deer she’d just shot. Don’t worry, there will be no posting of that shot here, ever.

Joe gets smashed.

My colleagues have been making fun of me all day. The pricks. So I got somewhat tipsy on Friday night (Ok, maybe totally smashed is more accurate). So I fell asleep on a coffeeshop table. So I wobbled in the arms of another man for a bit. So I puked in a taxi. Still, that’s no excuse to start a briefing with “Rough ride home, eh?”

I have a vague recollection of what happened. It was a drinking game. I should have known better. Drinking games are to me what football is to Titus Bramble, what singing is to Celine Dion and what elections are to my dear government. In other words, I am not very good at them. And so, on Friday night, a causal relationship was conclusively proven, namely that drinking games = Joel gets comprehensively and utterly wasted.

I remember somehow making it to my room, plopping down my bag of vomit which I’d inexplicably decided to spend the night with, and collapsing gratefully on my bed. It was just as well that the dog was asleep or else, had she come charging out barking like a lunatic, I’d surely have defenestrated (Look, Nessa! I used the poseur word!) the vile hound.

Now, the only thing worse than being completely drunk is waking up the morning after, which I did with a start. Where was I? What were these colourful things floating all around me? Why did the whole place smell like the inside of a whale? All meaningful questions which were left unanswered because my brain suddenly remembered what the consequences would be if my mother found me in such a state of degeneration. She’d previously found me in a similar condition lying face down on the couch and deemed it fit to unleash a fiery full-lunged bellow not two centimetres from my ear. Needless to say, I barely stirred but there was hell to pay in the following days.

Wanting to avoid another such episode, I dutifully disposed of the bag of vomit which was beginning to resemble beer batter in its lumpiness. Must have been the carbonara I had for dinner. Then I went into the bathroom and stood under the shower for a long time. Not because I thought it’d clear my head, but because I’d fallen asleep standing up.

Having been thus cleansed, I needed a hangover cure and so off I toddled to NTUC in search of Berocca where I made the joyous discovery that I had lost the ability to read. I would have to try to recognise the packaging. You might know that Berocca traditionally comes in little green boxes as do about 40,000 other items in any given supermarket so my match-the-colours plan of action perhaps wasn’t the brightest. And why didn’t I just ask the sales staff? Cos I couldn’t talk, you idiot. What would’ve have come out would’ve been “Wah dah Bwa Bra” which would’ve gotten me punched in the face, though that’s how I already felt like anyway. Still, I somehow emerged clutching my thirty B and C vitamin pills like they were the most precious things in the world. Which they were. Barely an hour after popping one, I felt almost normal. Now I don’t know what to do with the other 29.