New Year's Day with the Snoring Fam

No more hugs and kisses on both cheeks as the neighbours light up illegally procured fireworks. Instead of the alcohol that bathes the mood in its festive glow, only sleepiness accompanied me at the start of 2019, and the unspoken tension between me and those who I once opened up to.

I fled as quickly as the fireworks, with a bang swallowed by the atmosphere. It hadn't even been 8 hours since the smog of coloured explosives declared the beginning of a new year, and I am already lying down on someone's couch in Northern Thailand.

Yesterday melded into today, and today joined itself with the end of yesterday. If there were indeed 48 hours in a day, none of us would survive. Only a little after 36 hours in and my family has been knocked out cold. Their snores contend with the silence of a rustic evening, and the sound of my distant relative's father watching cable TV.

I can't remember the last time we went on holiday together as a family, the six of us. A decade and a half ago we were always sailing here, there, and everywhere, threatening the livelihood of miserable seamen as we nearly burnt a ship down, among various other incidents which now, as an adult, I would like to apologise deeply for. Oops?

With my dad at sea 3/4 of the year, me getting myself lost in some corner of the world at any given moment, my siblings all living in different conditions under the same roof and my mum rooted to the old house as caretaker and sole babysitter of my dad's two fur children, a time where we can actually take time to go somewhere and waste more money together, is rare. I realise this now after close to 4 years of neglect. At the age of 22, I suppose I should be grateful for discovering this so soon, in case it should pile itself up onto the mountain of regret, guilt, and shame, that cast the shadow of depression over my life. Preoccupied with chasing the Western philosophy of individualism, I failed to consider the fact that all those old Bastards killed themselves in the process of overthinking, and accordingly have moulded myself into a being whose existence is fuelled by inferiority, and whose only reason for living is to complain about not wanting to live. Always trust in Rachel to make the worst out of every possible scenario.

Learning how to let other people into my life, as well as mustering the courage of knocking on their doors, should be my top priority this year. If I start now, maybe I'll be able to become a confident salesperson by the time I graduate! And what better way to start than by taking a week-long family holiday on the very first day of new year? If only they weren't all snoring.

At 2200, my father awoke and joined me downstairs as the second person to be awake. Not much to do, we sat eating Kuachi, each looking at our devices while I read distractedly. If afternoon naps continuously prolong themselves into 12-hour regeneration processes, my dad fears that the two of us will have to spend our remaining five nights sitting on the couch eating Kuachi. I suppose the Khoo family, other than carrying the high-blood pressure and depression genes, have also perfected the practice of sleeping like logs. During the hours that they'd have slept by the time they open their eyes to the first rays of the sun, a dynasty would have fallen and they'd probably have already learnt the secrets of the universe in their dreams.

Drunk on Kuachi, I think I too shall see pleasant reveries. Goodnight!

Blah.

At times, I turn off airplane mode to check if anyone has called. It still surprises me that I am disappointed everytime, when no vibrations from the voicemail box come to return my expectation. Not even the scammers dial this number, which I suppose I should be grateful for.

What is the purpose of a mobile phone again? Being in my possession, it certainly does not live up to its most basic
raison d’être of making and receiving calls, sending and receiving text messages. Must I deprive even a device of its purpose!? Imagine the kind of essay I'd hand in now if you dressed me up in a bright blue pinafore. Back when things used to be things without 101 functions, their lives also seemed to be just as simple.

I was born in a factory somewhere along with a dozen others. Shiny and full of enthusiasm, I waited to be loved by one who would find me utterly useful, but sadly, I could only watch my fellow shiny things get picked up by their human masters one by one, leaving me behind, every damn time. So I weep in an impossible way, no tears come out because I am a thing with no liquid in me. Then one fine day some bloke came into the store and chose me, because there's nothing else left! Oh, was I delighted! Finally after all that waiting somebody BOUGHT me! I will pledge my life to you, Master, and swear that I will please you in every way. Happy days ensued where my Master would use me everyday, and I thought they'd last forever, until some tragedy befell me months later when the capitalists came up with an upgraded version of me. I was left in the drawer to rot and collect dust, never to see the light of day. I should be upset with my Master, but in the end I am simply disappointed in myself for not being able to live up to his expectations so I shall gladly spend the remaining days repenting in this musty drawer.

Usually, that is the flow of every essay titled "If I am a Thing" because our teachers told us (at least mine did) that tragedies move hearts and score points. If at 13 I thought that my essay was special, then I really ought to have asked the rest of the class what they wrote. I wonder if the kids these days still follow this simplistic plot? Teachers really do have it tough.

It's been about 30 minutes since I turned on my Wi-Fi and enabled calls to come in. The sky is still cloudy, the fan is still spinning, and my phone is as silent as it is when it's turned off.

My nose is itchy.

I don't suppose I should be studying, and working on my thesis? Ah, what is life? What is now? Living from day to day and indulging in nothing when the pace of society quickens with every second, it's exhausting to think about catching up when I know that I'll never get there.

I should shave my head and renounce the world.

I Have Nobody to Talk to, Only to Myself

I will go through this again, and again. The first time, I already thought was traumatising enough that I never wanted to experience it a second time, but only a little after 2 years, enveloped by the same glow of dust-eaten fairy lights, I scream, while pressing a fistful of blanket against trembling lips. Only 2 years past the age of 20, asking for the emotional stability that comes with the life of a 75-year-old widow seems as if I am begging for 80 years worth of work experience without earning any myself.

Was it raining like that last time too? I don't remember shivering so much, nor smelling the industrial mix of rainwater and development waste.

Newly recovered from my previous break up, with the cast taken off not too long ago, I had started to strive with confidence. Yet, only a few steps out of the hospital doors, the ambulance runs me over and I am back in the ER. So awfully close to Christmas, too! Talk about bad timing.

Instead of 'All I Want for Christmas is You' my playlist is comprised of sappy mando-pop from Eric Chou to Jay Chou. The sentiments of us Chinese can only be best expressed by the same kind, in the one-syllable-at-time language that makes wailing the lyrics of sad songs less taxing and physically demanding. Crucial to everyone's backdrop of regret is this one verse from Eric Chou's 你，好不好：别用离开教我失去的人最重要。 Do you feel it? Even when it's not a breakup, I choke on this everytime.

Immobile in bed, I can only feel the stream of tears, and look utterly ridiculous with a face plastered with tear-dried hair. Why, if only I could die of asphyxiation due to a blocked nose, I would be less troubled, much less. Untroubled by both the realisation that I will never find someone to tolerate me and the impeding doom that is my final year dissertation.

Yes, if I have the time to cry and to blog, I have time to work on my dissertation. Mind you, I did about 2 hours (or maybe a little less, who knows?) worth of scrolling and annotating before I decided that all this pent up anxiety and whiney self pity needed to be let go. The best resolution would be to continue staring at the screen and furiously sieving through academic articles with puffy eyes all the way until the sun rises. If my life's a mess, the least I could do is organise my research, if only a little. Piling up on that is another 3,000 word essay which I honestly have not even the slightest hint of motivation to think about.

I am now forcefully fitting Lego blocks together even though I know they aren't even the right pieces. But what else can I do when my brain is loaded with mashed potatoes on fire? Instead of bacon bits you might sometimes find in variation of mashed potatoes, you can find individual Chinese characters of loneliness in mine.

If I focus on the melody, on the synthesised violins and soft plucking of strings, my mind won't wander too far off in the wrong direction, where the extremely unlikely yet highly likely (to me) possibilities lie. Who said that a bear will not climb into my room, or if a suicide bomber decides to blow us all up? Or if, all the empty promises took physical form and turned into nothing but lies that one can only deny.

Some people are Godsend, even if they texted to ask about the dissertation instead of my general wellbeing. Now is not the time to burden anyone else with talk of my own mistakes, and baseless fears which I have no right to be affected by.

I am alone now, completely.

Cold Tea

When there is nobody left to whom "I told you so" could be directed, we come back to the beginning. The journey, long as it may seem, is roundabout in every way.

Full of doubt, I watch the steam rise up from my cup of tea. By the time your words and reassurances reach me, they are really half as serious as you meant them to be. The wall of steam filters all intentions. I've waited long enough to say that I am right, but when the tea is no longer steaming, behind the rising steam sits no one in particular. Only an indentation on the cushion signifies the weight of a person just only arised.

Like any other evening, I can hear the crickets calling out in search of a mate before sunrise. I don't suppose that even as a female cricket, I'd notice the singing of my beloved. Would I be contented with a brief life crushed by the soles of someone's work boots? I'd never even dream of them, work boots.

I've packed my things and left, because the warmth of my hands isn't enough to reheat the tea left unattended.

Puffy Eyes

I should have left my phone where it was after coming out of the shower. If I'd done so, I'd be asleep by now, undisturbed by whatever noise the party-goers are making at this time of night.

My eyes are puffy, and are irritated from I don't really know what. It could very well just be the air, or the dead skin cells in the folds of my blanket. Googling the problem seems to be way to go, though I'm pretty sure I'll need an eye transplant by the end of my search.

I'm tempted to drive home right now. Maybe I would have, if it wasn't my screeching pink car that's sitting in the parking lot, shivering. My nose is blocked, and chest clogged, so I'm sure my car is experiencing the some problem, somehow.

Waking up early and beating the traffic tomorrow seems impossible now.