my brother is back for cny! haha. good got somebody to accompany me to relatives house.. not tat we're going anywhere this yr, cuz my father is working every single day haa.. so jus my amah house n tats it.. no angpows! haha nvm i shall stay home n rot my brain with tv.
the night before my bro came back,his officer called because he wanted to deliver a hamper to our house. apparently all the soldiers who go overseas get a new yr hamper, sort of an SAF welfare thingie..wow not bad haha i never knew.
anyway, here's a post frm the vj cosiety blog tat i tink is super funny haha. trin is one of the vj seniors who went overseas:


The Decline Of ManPublished by trin 10 months, 4 weeks ago in Legally Clubbing. Tags: No Tags.

Two weeks after the strain of the mock exams, for which the student population of my school studied for an exhausting combined total of around a day and a half, we sufficiently roused ourselves to engage in debate in the common room. Students in my year are meant to retire to its subterranean basement to engage in scholarly pursuits, but more often than not we engage in pursuit of the coffee machine and the biscuits borne by a hassled tea lady.
“Where did all the biscuits go?” demanded a blonde with clumpy mascara. When she was informed that Tammy was just in the area, she screeched, “GOD! They’re probably halfway down the TOILET now!” and then stomped off.
Twenty minutes later, Chris ran into the sitting area, and upon being told the same thing, screamed, “GOD! She’s just going to throw them up again! I hate bulimics!” This began a half-hour-long rant in which Chris vented against bulimics, anorexics (“I’m going to start an exchange programme between Africa and college – we send the anorexics over there and the African kids come to us and eat all the food the anorexics don’t”), vegetarians, self-injurers, and, bizarrely, cyclists.
“I hate those people who cut themselves and show it off! They roll up their sleeves and say, ‘Ohmygod, you did not just see that, ohmygod, please don’t tell anybody, I have problems – ohmygod, my sleeves just rolled up again! Whoopsies!’ ”
After being bullied into grudgingly feeling some small modicum of compassion by the rest of us (“Well, they might have emotional problems, but if they’re not willing to show compassion for themselves I don’t see why I should,” Chris conceded), we began a very satisfying rant about how we hated middle class guilt because it stopped us from a good, long session of wallowing in our own self-hatred and misery.
“I can’t feel sorry for myself because I just think I should shut up because there are people who are so much worse off, and then I feel worse because I can’t allow myself to feel worse, and then I just feel ANGRY,” summarised Evey. “Sometimes I want to kind of hug myself in a little ball in a corner of my room. But it has to be a warm corner,” she amended. We nodded, and clutched at our jumpers in the freezing temperatures of the basement common room.
“But,” I perked up, warming to the subject. “You know what I hate? I hate how girly and emotional guys are becoming. Don’t you notice how guys are getting more feminine and emotional, but girls are becoming more masculine?”
“There is only one acceptable reason for boys to cry: when an immediate family member dies. But only in the privacy of one’s room. I think boys who cry all the time should be shot,” contributed Ellie. “Can’t they repress it? We’ve been doing it for centuries!”
From this, we excepted gay boys only, because all women love gay boys. I know girls who will drop everything to comfort a crying gay boy in the hope of attaining that fabled prize known as the Gay Best Friend, who will offer you years of companionship, whether it be through the tribulations of a bad relationship or the trials of Christmas shopping – like a puppy, except with better dress sense.
“Actually,” said Lily, who studies science, “I think it’s because of the water.”
“You have got to be joking,” I said. In Singapore, where we drink government-filtered urine dosed with fluorine to make our teeth healthier, the idea of “something in the water” has unfortunately become widely accepted as a fact.
“No, it’s because of all the morning-after pills women are taking. They contain estrogen, right? Even when the pill is taken, the hormone remains present in the body until it’s passed out. It’s flushed out to the water system, which everybody drinks from. It doesn’t affect girls, because we already have estrogen in our bodies. But guys drink it and get doses of estrogen higher than what they already have, which make them emotional and more feminine.”
“But not so much that they start developing boobs,” added Ellie, helpfully.
“That actually makes sense,” I said thoughtfully. “It explains why all the girls I know in relationships are more macho than their boyfriends.”
This is true. Ellie mournfully notes that there is a clear dearth of the burly, heroic, masculine type who is amenable to clubbing women over the head – the kind of men she prefers. Instead, all the English male hipsters who are arguably on the cutting edge of the contemporary, now don tight skinny jeans cribbed from the wardrobes of their little sister and paint their nails. Most have slim, leggy builds, tiny waists, long floppy hair, and a fringe from under which they bat the even-longer eyelashes that encircle their alluringly lined eyes.
Cass, whose personal tastes run to this particular arena, has despairingly said more than once: “I get so confused. I don’t know if I want to be them or be with them. And even when I’m convinced I don’t actually want their legs, I don’t know if I want to be be [insert sexual act I am not allowed to refer to here]-ed by them or [insert sexual act here] them. I think I’m a gay man trapped in a woman’s body.” Tellingly, her instinctive reaction when confronted by one of these specimens is to claw at the nearest person and hiss, “He’s so pretty!”
The only men who seem determined to buck this trend are the chavs. They dress in baggy tracksuits and bling, desperately trying to make up for the increasing femininity of their fellow countrymen with hyper-masculine aggressionm, which basically manifests itself in beating people’s heads in with baseball bats or bare fists (this act has been labelled with the incogruously jolly name of ‘happy slapping’). Terrifyingly, there also exist female chavs (‘chavs’ is a unisex term), who dress exactly like the men. The few concessions to they make to their actual gender consist of long hair scraped across their skulls into vicious ponytails, and slightly more feminine bling (i.e. more diamonds). The baseball bats, however, remain.
I sat on a train journey with Christobel from college, who read FHM for one solid hour (“I don’t buy girly magazines, they’re just boring”), and then engaged in a mostly one-sided conversation with her boyfriend, who had managed to get into an argument with his dad.
“Well darling, if you don’t want to speak to your dad, then I suppose you’re never going to speak to him ever again and too bad for you, then,” Christy pointed out. There was an outraged squawk on the other end of the phone. Tiring quickly of the subject matter, she swiftly concluded the conversation with an absent “Uh huh, yeah, I do too. Talk to you soon.”
Christy closed her mobile with an audible ‘click’ and rolled her eyes.
“Men,” she sighed.
Apparently, some things never change. Guys may write poetry, grow out their hair, tighten their jeans and cry in their rooms to sad guitar music, but to women, they will always remain as the “other” sex. Primarily the emotionally stunted, imbecilic, but grudgingly lovable, one.
But to be on the safe side: don’t drink the water, guys.