The hero steps into the bathroom on a cold and gloomy night. The light flickers. Wet tiles feel grimy beneath his toes and the mirror shows him everything he doesn't want to see. Something flutters outside the window, or perhaps it was in. Too far into the edge of his vision, he shrugs it off while his eyes trail habitually to the cracked ceiling.
The square is still there. Logic tells him it is merely an access to the wiring or plumbing that supplies the bathroom with power and water, but something gnawing at the back of his psyche screams at him that no, there is something there. Something malignant, something that has been watching and waiting to spring for years and years and years. It is inevitable, and the square seems to have followed him throughout his life, in nearly every bathroom in nearly every home. Like a trapdoor to hell, only above and not under its victim.
The walls are tiled too. They reflect and refract the yellow light in eerie hues, a too many pairs of eyes in too many faces too distorted to call his own. A sound suddenly leaps from behind him, and it takes him a fraction of a heartbeat too long to realise it is only water dripping somewhere below, its descent echoed by the single drain opening. He jumps.
The chair is there. Sitting, quite obviously. Like some devilish contraption, growling and howling and moaning and drooling. As a child, the sound of it made his hair stand on end, and now he only raises an eyebrow at the memory, his fears conquered but not forgotten.
Only now are the clothes shed, piled like moulted snakeskin beside the sink. He moves towards to shower proper, and something pulls at his mind again. Something is still wrong.
He stops and turns a full circle, eyes darting, watching a hundred other pairs of eyes glance about wildly, wondering which pair would catch sight of the impending doom that is to befall him, finally.
Nothing.
The square is still closed, and it seems that if anything did emerge, it has all but disappeared again. Or it is behind him.
No.
One deep breath later, he steps into the shower, sliding the clear glass door closed behind him as he does, wincing as it wobbles shut angrily. The water is cold, but the chill he gets from knowing something is still so very wrong has got nothing to do with what is spewing and spurting from the shower head.
What is it?
In his mind, scenes from Psycho and Ju-On replay themselves over and over again. A silent killer with a shiny knife, or a disembodied hand, pale and grey. But there is no knife, and no hands except his own, of which are still empty, save for the shower head. Thankfully, the water has started to warm.
He looks above and behind him one final time, checking to see if for some strange reason the closed and locked window is not closed and locked anymore. Wouldn't want the neighbours to catch sight of more than what they bargained for when they signed the deed for a "house with a view".
And it hits him.
He can see.
He isn't supposed to be able to see. Not here. Not like that.
Almost too aghast to laugh, he steps out of the shower.
And removes his glasses.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Head Scratch
Everyone's had their own "EH?!?" situation.
Like the time I sprayed chili on my windows.
I was recently made aware of a potentially big "EH?!?" situation by a friend of mine. Fairly new position for me, actually. I mean, I've had my share of weird and unimaginable scenarios, but this one blew me away.
Not in a good way, either.
Suffice it to say, I can't really elaborate on it here, to the undoubted dismay of the collected masses, so don't hold your breath. Just know that Naz is sitting here, scratching his head at the revelation.
Not in a good way, either.
It's weird, as you might well have deduced by now. A long time ago, I asked someone why people liked revealing so-called "secrets" to me. I thought it was just a passing trend that, opening up to Naz. But it seems to have come full-circle, and a few other "secrets" have made their way through whispering lips to my iPod-less ears.
Why? I don't quite know. It's not as if I'm in any position to exploit this information either. Not like I'm like that dude who got caught leaking the Coke recipe to Pepsi, or at least trying to. No, I'm just a fairly ordinary, if spectacularly modest and dazzlingly charming, guy. Sitting here, clicking through my news of Manchester United and WWE and Heroes.
And suddenly people come up to me (as much as someone can come up to you over MSN).
"Naz, Naz, I have to tell you something."
"Err, ok?"
"I mean, I have to tell someone this thing."
"Right."
And so on and so forth.
It's weird. Leaves me scratching my head.
I should charge some sort of retainer fee.
Like the time I sprayed chili on my windows.
I was recently made aware of a potentially big "EH?!?" situation by a friend of mine. Fairly new position for me, actually. I mean, I've had my share of weird and unimaginable scenarios, but this one blew me away.
Not in a good way, either.
Suffice it to say, I can't really elaborate on it here, to the undoubted dismay of the collected masses, so don't hold your breath. Just know that Naz is sitting here, scratching his head at the revelation.
Not in a good way, either.
It's weird, as you might well have deduced by now. A long time ago, I asked someone why people liked revealing so-called "secrets" to me. I thought it was just a passing trend that, opening up to Naz. But it seems to have come full-circle, and a few other "secrets" have made their way through whispering lips to my iPod-less ears.
Why? I don't quite know. It's not as if I'm in any position to exploit this information either. Not like I'm like that dude who got caught leaking the Coke recipe to Pepsi, or at least trying to. No, I'm just a fairly ordinary, if spectacularly modest and dazzlingly charming, guy. Sitting here, clicking through my news of Manchester United and WWE and Heroes.
And suddenly people come up to me (as much as someone can come up to you over MSN).
"Naz, Naz, I have to tell you something."
"Err, ok?"
"I mean, I have to tell someone this thing."
"Right."
And so on and so forth.
It's weird. Leaves me scratching my head.
I should charge some sort of retainer fee.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Chocolate Indulgence
Earlier on I posted something about the number 6. Some of you might not really get the significance of the simple digit, but I'll fill you in.I'm in love with someone. I have been for a little over 6 years now. She's always been there for me, and has always been the one who's been able to make me smile when I'm angry or upset, the one who can turn a bad day around.
I remember the day I hooked up with this particular person, it'll be a day I'll never forget for as long as I live. Looking back, it did seem a little dorky of me, what I did, but I'll keep telling myself it was all part of the mysterious charm of Naz.6th of May. Her birthday. And it happens to be the day we hooked up too. Now, you might think "Hey, that's spiffy. You don't have to get her two big gifts a year!"
But have you considered that I'd need to get her something monumental that one time? I hope I did the job this year...
Forgive me for being the less glamorous of the lot in the vast majority of the pictures I've brought myself to share to you guys here. I've never been exactly photogenic, and I don't think I ever will be. Still, a man's got to do what a man's got to do, and it was her party.Food was excellent, the parking a little cramped, and the puking almost non-existent, which was a minor miracle in itself. For which I am extremely thankful for!
So here's the final picture, and here's to remembering all the good times, and looking forward to many more.
To the girl I've loved for 6 years, and the woman I'll love forever more, I love you.
PS: To those extra-friendly guys reading this, the girls in the picture are all taken, especially the one in the middle.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
The Amazing Race
You are the last team to arrive.
But you're not eliminated, just discriminated. This isn't some reality show where groups of people try to get from Madagascar to Manhattan before the other teams. It's the other kind of race.
Nearly everyone has had their own experiences with the issue of racism. Some more than others. I'm technically an Indian, though I speak Malay and look fairly Chinese-y. Multiracial-man, I am. I won't begin telling you how many times some random person has babbled to me in Cantonese or Mandarin or Hokkein when I was younger and fairer.
Popular stand-up comedians Russel Peters and Carlos Mencia often speak of the various aspects of racism. Peters is much more tolerated by Mencia in general though, mainly because he doesn't have to scream and swear to get his point across. Others simply say it's becuase everyone hates the Mexican. Carlos Mencia is Honduran, of course.
When I was in my early teens, my class used to look forward to Physical Education (PE) lessons every week. Rather than boring runs and sit-ups, we usually managed to persuade our teacher to let us play soccer or basketball or even floorball.
"OK class, everyone here? Good. Today, we'll work on our running..."
(Groans and protests)
"OK, fine. Soccer then."
(Cheers)
"Right, teams. Chinese here, the rest, here. I'll play against the Chinese team.)
And the teacher was a Chinese dude. But it was all in good fun, and more often than not, the typical male Malay teenager is a better player than the average Chinese one at football. Basketball's a different matter, of course.
Alot of us are also familiar with the term manjan. For those who aren't, the term is kind of slang for Chinese folk. Some go as far as to extend its reach to encompass Koreans and Japanese too. Loosely translated, it can be interpreted as "yellow-skin", so you might understand how that goes.
Ah, the follies of youth. Where we had manjan vs non-manjan football games with regularity. Where curses of "You stupid manjan!" were as common as "Good afternoon, Sir."
Probably more common, come to think of it.
But I have my fair share of manj - err, I mean, Chinese friends, I think. I actually only know one other Malay guy in school actually. And yes, in case you protest, I'm Indian, but that's besides the point.
Why do people put so much emphasis on race? It's an interesting question. My father once asked me about the demographics of my class in Junior College, and when I revealed to him that there were only three "Malay" students (myself included), he promptly said "Good. You can study better."
Eh?
My dear late grandfather gave me a few words of wisdom as I was to be enlisted into the Army in 2004:
"Be careful in the army. Watch out for all the bad Chinese gangsters."
Right...
Most of us can take the odd racist joke or two. I've called a few people "damn yanks" or "bloody Aussies" and a few others. We all know racist jokes. Let's face it, racist jokes are usually the funniest kind. Besides sexually explicit ones.
Q: How do you stop a (insert random nationality here, eg Indian) from drowning?
A: Shoot him before he hits the water.
Q: How do you stop a Pakistani tank?
A: Shoot the people pushing it.
But enough of that. Most of us also have our own personal perceptions and stereotypes when dealing with members of different (or even the same) race. Only recently I was complaining to a group of friends (mostly Chinese) about the tendencies of Chinese youths to blast techno-crap from their neon Nokias, apparently basking in their ignorance of headphones. Many people in Singapore avoid certain areas at certain times because of the make-up of the crowd and the ensuing aromas that accompany it.
A friend of mine was asked a question a few days ago, and when he got it right he was to be awarded a prize. He got to choose between a cute teddy bear and a cap, and to the dismay of the females chittering amongst themselves, he chose the bear. Would you blame him, when he wears a turban? Another one of my Sikh friends once got called up in school for having long hair.
Even movies and other facets of the entertainment industry have had their own take on racism. Some more light-hearted than others, of course. If you can, catch Undercover Brother. It's better than Austin Powers. Russia has banned every single James Bond movie that I'm aware of. The Malaysian public was outraged by the portrayal of their homeland in Entrapment. Pocahontas. Harold and Kumar. The whole hip-hop genre.
I also remember the days of me being a regular patron of Yahoo pool. I had quite a run of form, and I only stopped because of a few aggravating experiences.
"ASL?"
"Oh, 16 M"
"Cool, 17 M NC"
"OK."
(After the game)
"GG man."
"Yeah, you too. Another one?"
"Sure, what's your name?"
"Naz."
"Naz?"
"Yerp, Nazreen."
"That doesn't sound very Christian."
"Well, it isn't."
"Jew?"
"No... I'm actually Muslim, Singaporean."
At which point the conversation either drifts to "Singapore? That's somewhere in Hong Kong right?" Or the alternative, which is even worse.
"Muslim? Fuck you, you fucking terrorist, burn in hell you asshole."
Stupid yanks. (Sorry!)
Are you a racist? It's an interesting question. I might feel that deep down, most of us are, to a certain extent. It's only natural, in a way. Birds of a feather, you know?
Of course, I've not really addressed the issue of racism, merely babbled again, as usual.
I'm out. And I'm Indian.
But you're not eliminated, just discriminated. This isn't some reality show where groups of people try to get from Madagascar to Manhattan before the other teams. It's the other kind of race.
Nearly everyone has had their own experiences with the issue of racism. Some more than others. I'm technically an Indian, though I speak Malay and look fairly Chinese-y. Multiracial-man, I am. I won't begin telling you how many times some random person has babbled to me in Cantonese or Mandarin or Hokkein when I was younger and fairer.
Popular stand-up comedians Russel Peters and Carlos Mencia often speak of the various aspects of racism. Peters is much more tolerated by Mencia in general though, mainly because he doesn't have to scream and swear to get his point across. Others simply say it's becuase everyone hates the Mexican. Carlos Mencia is Honduran, of course.
When I was in my early teens, my class used to look forward to Physical Education (PE) lessons every week. Rather than boring runs and sit-ups, we usually managed to persuade our teacher to let us play soccer or basketball or even floorball.
"OK class, everyone here? Good. Today, we'll work on our running..."
(Groans and protests)
"OK, fine. Soccer then."
(Cheers)
"Right, teams. Chinese here, the rest, here. I'll play against the Chinese team.)
And the teacher was a Chinese dude. But it was all in good fun, and more often than not, the typical male Malay teenager is a better player than the average Chinese one at football. Basketball's a different matter, of course.
Alot of us are also familiar with the term manjan. For those who aren't, the term is kind of slang for Chinese folk. Some go as far as to extend its reach to encompass Koreans and Japanese too. Loosely translated, it can be interpreted as "yellow-skin", so you might understand how that goes.
Ah, the follies of youth. Where we had manjan vs non-manjan football games with regularity. Where curses of "You stupid manjan!" were as common as "Good afternoon, Sir."
Probably more common, come to think of it.
But I have my fair share of manj - err, I mean, Chinese friends, I think. I actually only know one other Malay guy in school actually. And yes, in case you protest, I'm Indian, but that's besides the point.
Why do people put so much emphasis on race? It's an interesting question. My father once asked me about the demographics of my class in Junior College, and when I revealed to him that there were only three "Malay" students (myself included), he promptly said "Good. You can study better."
Eh?
My dear late grandfather gave me a few words of wisdom as I was to be enlisted into the Army in 2004:
"Be careful in the army. Watch out for all the bad Chinese gangsters."
Right...
Most of us can take the odd racist joke or two. I've called a few people "damn yanks" or "bloody Aussies" and a few others. We all know racist jokes. Let's face it, racist jokes are usually the funniest kind. Besides sexually explicit ones.
Q: How do you stop a (insert random nationality here, eg Indian) from drowning?
A: Shoot him before he hits the water.
Q: How do you stop a Pakistani tank?
A: Shoot the people pushing it.
But enough of that. Most of us also have our own personal perceptions and stereotypes when dealing with members of different (or even the same) race. Only recently I was complaining to a group of friends (mostly Chinese) about the tendencies of Chinese youths to blast techno-crap from their neon Nokias, apparently basking in their ignorance of headphones. Many people in Singapore avoid certain areas at certain times because of the make-up of the crowd and the ensuing aromas that accompany it.
A friend of mine was asked a question a few days ago, and when he got it right he was to be awarded a prize. He got to choose between a cute teddy bear and a cap, and to the dismay of the females chittering amongst themselves, he chose the bear. Would you blame him, when he wears a turban? Another one of my Sikh friends once got called up in school for having long hair.
Even movies and other facets of the entertainment industry have had their own take on racism. Some more light-hearted than others, of course. If you can, catch Undercover Brother. It's better than Austin Powers. Russia has banned every single James Bond movie that I'm aware of. The Malaysian public was outraged by the portrayal of their homeland in Entrapment. Pocahontas. Harold and Kumar. The whole hip-hop genre.
I also remember the days of me being a regular patron of Yahoo pool. I had quite a run of form, and I only stopped because of a few aggravating experiences.
"ASL?"
"Oh, 16 M"
"Cool, 17 M NC"
"OK."
(After the game)
"GG man."
"Yeah, you too. Another one?"
"Sure, what's your name?"
"Naz."
"Naz?"
"Yerp, Nazreen."
"That doesn't sound very Christian."
"Well, it isn't."
"Jew?"
"No... I'm actually Muslim, Singaporean."
At which point the conversation either drifts to "Singapore? That's somewhere in Hong Kong right?" Or the alternative, which is even worse.
"Muslim? Fuck you, you fucking terrorist, burn in hell you asshole."
Stupid yanks. (Sorry!)
Are you a racist? It's an interesting question. I might feel that deep down, most of us are, to a certain extent. It's only natural, in a way. Birds of a feather, you know?
Of course, I've not really addressed the issue of racism, merely babbled again, as usual.
I'm out. And I'm Indian.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Walk The Walk
A recent study has shown that Singaporeans are one of, if not the, world's fastest walkers.
Do you walk fast?
A part of me wasn't really surprised at the announcement, which of course made for a fairly interesting read when I did catch it enbedded between the half-page ads of slimming gadgets and hair implants.
Singaporeans, if anything, are kiasu. Wikipedia defines kiasu as "the fear of losing", which is pretty accurate I guess. Menopausal housewives with jade-covered fingers can be more daunting than The Undertaker when they want to grab that last free gift. Seriously.
So is it really shocking that we are a nation of power-walkers?
Everyone here is so obsessed with coming out on top, or at least keeping up. Kids barely into their puberty are lectured by their parents when they score a measly B grade on a class test, because the kid from the Wong family next door got a B+. Hordes of students and working adults crush everyone else on our public transport systems, defying the law of displacement when they squeeze into already-crowded buses and trains. Human sardine cans.
Myself, I usually walk fairly quickly too. Some might say that I don't have the best sense of direction, so the speed of me moving can be rather confusing. I try not to listen to the doubters, I just hate being inefficient. Same goes for eating. Why spend an hour munching on fries when I can finish the fries, burger and Coke in under three minutes?
There's a flip-side, of course.
I refuse to believe that the study ranks Singapore as THE fastest walking nation. I mean, sure, alot of people here are indeed kiasu and I wouldn't bat an eyelid if I see an elderly wheelchair-bound lady whoosh past just to save a few seconds on waiting time for the next train.
But there are so many people who just don't seem to get the concept of other people.
You know what I'm talking about. The ones that take their time walking. The ones that stroll along while you're fuming behind them. The ones you glare at from behind their backs, maybe clucking your tongue every now and then in the hope that that simple act will suddenly propel them to Brunei.
Of course, I get that sometimes you walk slowly. You don't sprint through an art gallery. You don't dash through the zoo. You don't bust a gut in the library.
But neither do you imitate a sloth at the foot of an escalator. Or start shuffling instead of striding when you see something sparkly in a shop-window, leaving the unfortunate souls behind you with a rather uncomfortable close-up of your rump.
It's just weird, and another one of my pet peeves, I guess. I told you guys before (and many times since) that I abhore crowds. Shopping, parades, clubs, whatever. Crowds. Anathema.
Especially when you're trying to get somewhere fast.
Do you walk fast?
A part of me wasn't really surprised at the announcement, which of course made for a fairly interesting read when I did catch it enbedded between the half-page ads of slimming gadgets and hair implants.
Singaporeans, if anything, are kiasu. Wikipedia defines kiasu as "the fear of losing", which is pretty accurate I guess. Menopausal housewives with jade-covered fingers can be more daunting than The Undertaker when they want to grab that last free gift. Seriously.
So is it really shocking that we are a nation of power-walkers?
Everyone here is so obsessed with coming out on top, or at least keeping up. Kids barely into their puberty are lectured by their parents when they score a measly B grade on a class test, because the kid from the Wong family next door got a B+. Hordes of students and working adults crush everyone else on our public transport systems, defying the law of displacement when they squeeze into already-crowded buses and trains. Human sardine cans.
Myself, I usually walk fairly quickly too. Some might say that I don't have the best sense of direction, so the speed of me moving can be rather confusing. I try not to listen to the doubters, I just hate being inefficient. Same goes for eating. Why spend an hour munching on fries when I can finish the fries, burger and Coke in under three minutes?
There's a flip-side, of course.
I refuse to believe that the study ranks Singapore as THE fastest walking nation. I mean, sure, alot of people here are indeed kiasu and I wouldn't bat an eyelid if I see an elderly wheelchair-bound lady whoosh past just to save a few seconds on waiting time for the next train.
But there are so many people who just don't seem to get the concept of other people.
You know what I'm talking about. The ones that take their time walking. The ones that stroll along while you're fuming behind them. The ones you glare at from behind their backs, maybe clucking your tongue every now and then in the hope that that simple act will suddenly propel them to Brunei.
Of course, I get that sometimes you walk slowly. You don't sprint through an art gallery. You don't dash through the zoo. You don't bust a gut in the library.
But neither do you imitate a sloth at the foot of an escalator. Or start shuffling instead of striding when you see something sparkly in a shop-window, leaving the unfortunate souls behind you with a rather uncomfortable close-up of your rump.
It's just weird, and another one of my pet peeves, I guess. I told you guys before (and many times since) that I abhore crowds. Shopping, parades, clubs, whatever. Crowds. Anathema.
Especially when you're trying to get somewhere fast.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
6
The number of the day.
It's said that almost everyone is connected to almost everyone else by "six degrees of separation"; the meaning being that if someone you know personally is one "step" away from you, and everyone that person knows is then two "steps", practically the whole world is connected by no more than six steps, in almost every case.
Six flags is one of, if not the, world's largest chain of amusement/theme parks. I've been to Magic Mountain when I was a kid. I remember taking the Ninja and not realising there was a loop. Yeah, it was over pretty quick. Quicker than a particular meeting between two people I know, something I overheard as I was praying that someone wouldn't puke.
This year's Rocky Balboa was the sixth installment of the popular Rocky series, arguably the platform which launched Sylvester Stallone's career. Let's face it, Demolition Man wasn't anything special.
Italian soccer club AC Milan (woo!) retired the number 6 from their playing squad a number of years ago in recognition of the years of service that legendary defender Franco Baresi gave the club, and the number is still unused to this day.
In Singapore, children are required to attend primary school. In most cases, this lasts six years and usually shapes the future of the child. I've seen my share of young geniuses and juvenile delinquents to safely say that such a statement isn't overly exaggerated.
Hannibal Lecter, named the most memorable villian in film history some time ago, suffered from a condition called polydactyly; his left hand had six fingers. The character, of course, was made famous by Anthony Hopkins in such movies as Silence of the Lambs. I highly recommend reading the book.
In cricket, "six" may refer to a kind of shot that's kinda like a home run in baseball. That's all I know about it. The most I've ever read about cricket was a section in The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy where Arthur is learning about the SEP field.
In mathematics, the number 6 is called a "perfect number". This is due to the sum of its proper divisions (1,2,3) equate to the number itself. The next one is 28, in case you're wondering.
In Chemistry, the element Carbon has an ato,mic mass of six. Carbon of course, is one of the most common elements in the galaxy. Living things all contain carbon.
Not to brag, but the 6 series is still parked in my house. I want to drive it very badly.
In any case, I'm glad to know that I don't need six degrees of separation to reach the girl I love.
And I don't need a roller-coaster to feel thrilled and excited. Just the right company.
Sometimes a relationship is like a tough boxer. Gets what looks like too many body-blows, but you can never count it out, it always comes back stronger.
Milan is called the fashion capital of the world. I have my own fashionista, my own diva.
There's almost nothing quite as warm as watching the one you love fall asleep in your arms. On your way to school.
Of course, some people (one girl in particular) doesn't need extra fingers to go around pinching and squeezing bits that weren't designed to be pinched and squeezed.
I prefer hockey over cricket anyway.
And I know another perfect figure that's living nearby.
Plus we do have our own chemistry.
And she's finally stopped nagging about wanting to be driven around.
Happy Birthday, baby.
It's said that almost everyone is connected to almost everyone else by "six degrees of separation"; the meaning being that if someone you know personally is one "step" away from you, and everyone that person knows is then two "steps", practically the whole world is connected by no more than six steps, in almost every case.
Six flags is one of, if not the, world's largest chain of amusement/theme parks. I've been to Magic Mountain when I was a kid. I remember taking the Ninja and not realising there was a loop. Yeah, it was over pretty quick. Quicker than a particular meeting between two people I know, something I overheard as I was praying that someone wouldn't puke.
This year's Rocky Balboa was the sixth installment of the popular Rocky series, arguably the platform which launched Sylvester Stallone's career. Let's face it, Demolition Man wasn't anything special.
Italian soccer club AC Milan (woo!) retired the number 6 from their playing squad a number of years ago in recognition of the years of service that legendary defender Franco Baresi gave the club, and the number is still unused to this day.
In Singapore, children are required to attend primary school. In most cases, this lasts six years and usually shapes the future of the child. I've seen my share of young geniuses and juvenile delinquents to safely say that such a statement isn't overly exaggerated.
Hannibal Lecter, named the most memorable villian in film history some time ago, suffered from a condition called polydactyly; his left hand had six fingers. The character, of course, was made famous by Anthony Hopkins in such movies as Silence of the Lambs. I highly recommend reading the book.
In cricket, "six" may refer to a kind of shot that's kinda like a home run in baseball. That's all I know about it. The most I've ever read about cricket was a section in The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy where Arthur is learning about the SEP field.
In mathematics, the number 6 is called a "perfect number". This is due to the sum of its proper divisions (1,2,3) equate to the number itself. The next one is 28, in case you're wondering.
In Chemistry, the element Carbon has an ato,mic mass of six. Carbon of course, is one of the most common elements in the galaxy. Living things all contain carbon.
Not to brag, but the 6 series is still parked in my house. I want to drive it very badly.
In any case, I'm glad to know that I don't need six degrees of separation to reach the girl I love.
And I don't need a roller-coaster to feel thrilled and excited. Just the right company.
Sometimes a relationship is like a tough boxer. Gets what looks like too many body-blows, but you can never count it out, it always comes back stronger.
Milan is called the fashion capital of the world. I have my own fashionista, my own diva.
There's almost nothing quite as warm as watching the one you love fall asleep in your arms. On your way to school.
Of course, some people (one girl in particular) doesn't need extra fingers to go around pinching and squeezing bits that weren't designed to be pinched and squeezed.
I prefer hockey over cricket anyway.
And I know another perfect figure that's living nearby.
Plus we do have our own chemistry.
And she's finally stopped nagging about wanting to be driven around.
Happy Birthday, baby.
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