the firing squad.
written: 5:57 p.m. on Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2004

Today... was not a good day. Every little thing got on my nerves. Morning assembly (a waste of time); the checking of the stupid oral digital thermometers that I wasn't even aware of; GP class and the sheer stupidity of some of my classmates; the usual stream of butchered English/Mandarin, clearly heard while walking down any fucking corridor in the fucking school; Tong, making asinine remarks in the bookshop; the complete lack of sensitivity of some people; how I always feel like I have to react and respond all the bloody time, as if it were my responsiblity; the way some people interrupt others in the middle of their sentence; the canteen; their expectations: surely I can't be depressed, or even a little bit ticked off for no particular reason; how they simply cannot pick up on the very obvious fact that I am not in the good mood, and hence I do not want to entertain your bullshit because I am not interested so just leave me alone.

What is it about me that others seem to think appropriate to dump their contrived shit on me? Just because I am non-confrontational, does not mean that I am not extremely irritated at you inside.

Because I am. You make remarks and expect me to laugh but I don't feel like laughing today and I would appreciate some space for me to brood, because I cannot be a certain way all the time. Stop talking to me in the middle of something that I'm listening to, stop asking me stupid questions, stop telling me stupid things, stop making a scene, stop being so presumptuous because you don't know me as well as you think you do, I am not unhappy about your fortunate turn of events, I could not care any less, and if I had to listen to one more flippant remark, delivered without so much of a thought as to the words that you are uttering, I think I will snap for sure.

I seem to be hit with the same fucking problem every corner I turn. Just listen for once. You may be loud, but it does not garner you the right to turn off the voices of others.

I think my life would be so much easier if I didn't have to deal with people at all.

And it does not help matters at all that this happened:

Prac Crit class, in walks the Bulldog, who is unfortunately not ill. The rustling of papers as people rummaged around in their bags and took out the required stuff. She asked for the OHP to be set up. She took out some materials, some transparencies, and just when you thought that a proper lesson could be conducted for once...

Bulldog: Where's your checklist? Why are my notes not annotated? [insert name of guy next to me], you are going to fail. At the rate you're going, you are going to fail. Blah blah blah, I gave you all these notes and you still have the audacity to tell [insert name of a teacher] that you are not prepared. As far as I'm concerned, blah blah blah, I have prepared you, blah blah blah, my conscience is clear, blah blah blah, I'm staying for another few more weeks because of you, blah blah fucking blah.

And later on, when I asked an innocuous and certainly valid question, she had the audacity of accusing me of not knowing my stuff. Oh yeah, I know shit-all about Lit. If I knew shit-all about Lit, nobody in my level can pass. Fuck you. I used to like the paper until you came along and broke up my party, so thank you very much for perpetuating my dislike for prac crit. Thank you so much for ruining my favourite subject. At this point of time I think I would rather do Economics than to do Literature because I don't see the point anymore. The fun, the joy, the passion, they are all gone. All that I can associate with paper 8 now is the insipid checklist; a bunch of meaningless tests; a bunch of equally-meaningless rantings on your part; and the unwanted memories of secondary school, of drama, of all that I hated and thought awfully pretentious.

So maybe Literature is nothing much more than an awfully elaborate piece of art, as in artifice, and all these while I've had the wool pulled over my eyes and I didn't know. How could I have not connected the dots? Literature is pretentious. If you want to say something, just bloody say the fucking thing. Why go through all the lengthy trouble of concealing your shit in metaphors and imageries? Why? And why can't I do the same in my fucking essays? Because I'm not as established as these so-called writers? But at the end of the day, aren't we all humans too?

You tell me, what the hell is the point? You wonder where my cynicism stems from but I don't, not anymore. There is no point. There is no epiphany. Oscar Wilde was and is right: "The basis of optimism is sheer terror." You're optimistic because you're afraid of the truth, that there is no point in life. You eat, you shit, you fuck, you breathe, and then you die. That is all there is to it.

I've spent my whole life, literally, listening to others talk shit about their fucking meaningless lives, as if I fucking give a fuck, as if it's even in my interest to care.

Well, newsflash. I don't care. And I don't see why I should. Give me a good reason to bother with people who don't deserve it. Give me a good reason to put up with idiots who let me down, time and time again.

Or maybe I can only blame myself for forcing them to read between the lines.

"You can't just infer it yourself?"
"No."

That was about GP. I think it applies to all sectors of life.

So yes, I deserve to face the firing squad. I've been staring at the goddamn firing squad for way too long; it's time to open fire.

So just do it.

Capitalism, the profit motive, has never been so appealing, has never hit so close to home.

After all, nothing matters but your own success, because the feeling seems to be mutual anyway.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010