Youngest kid of six with an inferiority and black sheep complex, but determined that God saves not just his soul to heaven but the remainder of his manic-depressive life, so others won't say he became a Christian and remained a jerk.
i won't be transparent before i'm opaque. and you'll get to know me starting from the small things: who my favourite bands are. what kind of movies i like. who are my heroes.
I’m convinced that when confronted with sincere, real love, the Jesus factor will become obvious. But let’s not plant the cross before we carry it. I’m not trying to con you.
Some dreams are meant to be achieved. I know that. But maybe other dreams are meant to drive us, privately. Never known to anyone but ourselves.
It is a sadness that, when choosing between crying and sighing, will choose sighing. I'd almost say that melancholy is being sad about sadness itself.
On memory and nostalgia
It saddens me when life moves forward and people decide that certain things are worth forgetting.
I've learnt that the word irregardless is filed as a non-standard word in the English language. That's a lexicographer's way of saying it's not a real word.
Crowds are fickle things. So when we stand in the thousands and cry against the present government, do we know who we're actually crying for?
People always want the best for themselves. But I want to sometimes take second or third or fourth best, just so that the loser down the road doesn't always have to come in last. It must feel like shit to always come in last.
On growing old
Leasehold property make me feel sad. It doesn't matter how old the family photos are that you put on your wall. It's your family but it's not really your wall.
I ask you, if God loves everyone, and if God is also incapable of loving evil, how can there be such a thing as an evil man?
On a daily basis
One line quips, like this.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
THE COFFEE TYPE
Pete Martell: How do you like your coffee?
Agent Cooper: Blacker than midnight on a moonless night.
I remember having one of those church committee meetings and someone had one of those Jesus mugs that said "What wakes you up in the morning?" (the correct answer is not coffee).
for the last maybe five years, i've been self-diagnosed allergic to coffee. when i drink it, it makes me want to throw up. my heart beats funny and i go completely wonky. i've been quite happy to be a tea-drinker, up until recently, when ironically a batch of very nice bangladeshi tea landed on my table and i wondered what it would be like to be one of those other people.
those coffee-drinking people.
drinking tea is becoming more in. just like how eating salmon and salads is attracting even liam gallagher these days. but i've always been fascinated with coffee-drinking. i just couldn't touch it.
don't get me wrong, i don't like the tall mochachino with skinny milk idea of drinking coffee. coffee for me is no more romantic if the beans came from honduras. coffee for me is romantic because it's the non-smoking tortured artist's drug. it's romantic for its late nights, lonely thoughts, isolation, piles of work and, from a cinematic perspective, a nice waitress and cigarette smoke.
and so, i've reattacked the wanky black beverage one last time and i've decided to make it a good one. one big hurrah of a go before i concede defeat and return to my south-asian leafy alternative. i made a cup the other day and took about five sips across one hour. a whole hour. just to acclimitise.
i didn't like, die. far from it.
i woke up. a bit more. sip. and a bit more. sip.
the next day, repeat. then the next day, repeat. then repeat. every day now, i've had a coffee, sipped slow to death, but sipped nonetheless. maybe i've overcome the allergy. maybe it was never there to begin with. maybe i just made my coffees too damn black for the love of its romance. maybe now i can really drink coffee. like all the cool people. nice.
so i ask myself. what the heck am i doing, at 28, drinking coffee for image sake? or better yet, let me ask you something. me and coffee is just one example. do you think we'll ever reach an age in our lives where we effectively stop doing things in the name of projecting an image?
Labels: food, identity
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