Ever since I picked up the highly enjoyable hobby of thinking, it was a tough feat giving it up. Not that the effort of being sober consumed me, because as much as I could hate it, I loved the exercise of getting lost in my own head.

There seemed to be no feeling in the world comparable to rolling a thought around over and over so the end result is warped and blown out of proportion in the twisted, self-hating confines of your mind. It’s almost, if you will excuse the sad attempt at irony, comforting, this idea of romanticism over such piteous inclinations.

The mental hurricane is something I’ve grown accustomed to, even enjoyed, and revolutionized, eventually, into something like a treat after a long, hard, uneventful day. My disturbing version of unwinding.

Of course, it isn’t all a bed of roses with this unconventional fad of over-thinking. The rotten thoughts sneak in (they’re all rotten, really, but this time I mean rotten rotten) and those are the demon children you wouldn’t want to see. Like if you had a hobby of knitting, cramped fingers would be the bad side of an otherwise healthy and fun past time (the definitive meaning of ‘healthy’ is subjective in this context). These cramps, the painful side of mulling over your thoughts, would lead to the occasional bouts of self-slapping, and these instances wouldn’t exactly be my pristine definition of a good time – I’m a pussy when it comes to inflicting pain - the slaps are half-hearted and, hence, only partially distracting, which is its main purpose. Most times though, sleep overtakes me, and things seem a hell lot better in the morning.

There are common topics that come with thinking. My personal favourite is ‘solitude’. My least favourite is ‘death’. In between, the subjects would cross over and mingle, sometimes being unique and fresh, sometimes giving me a vantage perspective of it, sometimes forming incomprehensible – even by my standards – corrupted garbage that would frustrate me so much I find solace in sustenance like the average kind.

But often, and I am thankful for these moments, thinking leaves me something to think about. It’s a wired condition of bad consciousness and the good that comes along with it. It’s the healthy sort of unhealthy. And despite the oxymoron, it’s a major tension releaser – because after you’ve thought so much about something, there really isn’t anything else to do: except to just let it go.

My Pseudonym Dilemma

I just wanted to say that this quote from Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet In Heaven is one of my favorite quotes from a novel, ever. And in the case that one or two people haven't read the amazing book yet (what are the odds, right?), I'll just put it here.

"Holding anger is a poison. It eats you from inside. We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the person who harmed us. But hatred is a curved blade. And the harm we do, we do to ourselves."

xx, pseudil.

Singapore’s 987 FM seems to think so. I just got back from the most insulting and distasteful contest held by 987 FM to win meet and greet tickets to Fall Out Boy on Feb 10th. Basically, because FOB’s new album title, Folie a Deux = “a madness shared by two”, teams of two had to perform the craziest things they could think of to show their love for Fall Out Boy.

If that sounds ridiculous, the things some of the teams did were even worse. The winning team (two 13-14 year old girls who won tickets, meet and greets and a signed guitar by Joe Trohman, lead guitarist) poured a bowl of hothot laksa (spicy noodles with coconut milk, for those non-Singaporean readers) over their heads into a pail, took off their socks and used them to scoop the noodles up into their mouths. As if that wasn’t mad enough, they took off their shoes, squeezed toothpaste onto the bottom of the soles and used KFC cheese fries to scrape it off, and yeah, they ate that too.

Like I said, the most insulting contest ever. The 2nd team ate live worms and some revolting concoction of curry powder, chilli sauce and other weird shit. One other team cut off their eyelashes, some hair and made a hair+tobasco+wasabi sandwich and fed it to each other.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am a huge fan of Fall Out Boy, and yes, I do want to meet them and tell them how much their music has helped me through tough situations. But, to do shit like that is an insult to both the band and myself. And honestly, I don’t have the guts nor the stomach (literally) to do stunts like that, as amusing as some of them were.

Guess I’m not ‘mad’ enough.

Nevertheless, I will still try my luck to meet them, without humiliating myself, after their concert. See you guys there.

Be nice to people,
Sad Weather Novella.