/a penny for my thoughts, o no, I'll sell 'em for a dollar/
/they're worth so much more after I'm a goner/
It's funny, this thing we call age: to some it's just a number; to some it's like an alarm ticking down together with their sagging skin; to others it's a checkpoint, telling them how far they've run in a lonesome race against time. Apologies to start on such a pensive mood. I'm not emo, I promise. I just feel like trying to figure out this feeling that I got when the clock stroke midnight last night. Birthdays seem to become decreasingly eventful as we grow older, no? I mean, when we were toddlers, our parents made sure that we had the time of our lives, and we learnt that we were supposed to be happy that we had survived yet another year scot-free. Then as our body got bigger, our ego got bigger, puberty hit (and it hit hard!), and in those juvenile years we stole the Ptolemaic view that we were the centre of our universe. We made goddamn sure that our birthdays are the days on which we reigned supreme-- we were special albeit only once a year.
Now that I'm old, jaded and flabby, it feels like the surge of excitement has ebbed away together with the good-ol' teenage dreams. Perhaps this is the reason why I can't help but to sniff a whiff of poignancy on this day because as what should have been the case: a rowdy 21st birthday reeked of alcohol and adult fun, is nowhere in sight. It kinda sucks now that I think about it that I could have expended the effort to have something outta-control to do on this monumental moment, but no. Nothing from the inside is pushing me hard enough to do as such. The sloth has taken the best in me. Damn, I'm, like, so uncool.
Nevertheless, I have this blog, which I can have fun with (Good god, I'm such a dork!). I have always wondered how I've lived this 21 years of existence. Ok, let's see.
October 25th 1989, I came out of my momma's womb. This I know for sure, though I don't know what time of the day it happened. I was so proud in 8th grade when I found out in Geography that my birthday fell one day after the birthday of the UN (I was cool even then, huh!). I don't have much recollection of my life until the age of 3. I probably drank a lot of milk, or something. Nonetheless, my 3rd birthday was epic. I remember I had this cake sculpted into the shape of a duck, I wore an orange sweater, and I changed behind the teacher's desk in front of the whole class right after the lesson ended. They had to call my brother who was still having lessons in the other room to celebrate my birthday. I was king. So everybody had to bow down before the duck-shaped cake. Attractive, I know. I still wonder whether the duck sculpture was real cake or styrofoam. Anw, I had this obsession toward ducks (or was it swans?) when I was real young. I always asked my maid who, I must say, was the best duck-drawing maid in the entire world, to draw for me again and again (and again).
First day of school was epic. It was like the Crusades, just that it was me against the entire school staff. My mom never gets tired to remind me that I drenched myself with sweat crying and running around to look for her who was only standing two metres away outside. I have this vague memory of me running to the backdoor of the class, and just when I was about to get out, they closed it and slammed the door in my face. Pause for dramatic effect. I mean, when I kid needs his mommy, he needs his mommy. Teachers, don't be cruel.
Growing up I was a very picky kid. I didn't eat veggies, gross-looking things, beans, green soups and fried onions. But I was a good kid. I read comics, a lot of them. I had strange fixation on Disney movies, I watched Snow White so much that I could remember the entire dialogue and songs by heart, although I had no freaking idea what most of the words meant. I actually co-wrote my primary school graduation play, and yes, in English (after probably painstaking editing by my teacher), and it was, yes, Snow White. I was uber cool, I know. In the fourth grade I learnt English for the first time, and my first few sentences were 'Hello, my name is Andy. How are you? I'm fine. Thank you'. So, in my second language, I was Andy first, then Calvin Magnus. On hindsight, I wonder why they taught it that way.
There were some tragedies. There was once where my brother and I played in our third-world playground. My brother fell and banged his head when I was on the adjacent swing, and he had to get some stitches. I was beyond petrified, beyond everything. Then, there was once when I was riding my bike to go to the playground, and one side of the training wheels (Don't laugh!) was konked out, and when I was making a turn, I fell together into the gutter. The next thing I knew everything was dark, and I had black stuff all over me. That, that was an interesting experience. There were times where home didn't feel like home either, but let's not go there.
8th grade was one hell of an experience. I had my first taste of social hierarchy, and I underwent my first social genocide. Guess it started when I turned curly, short and fat in 7th grade. Then, I discovered that I turned curly, short and fat. And things don't really work for you when you ticked all the boxes of the social-wanna-be list. To put it in a nut shell, all the people that I wanted to be friends with didn't want to be friends with me, for some strange reasons. Details are unnecessary, and I actually blogged about it once upon a time. It's true that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger me. Good-ol' friends, thanks for making me fucking strong.
7th grade, my first crush. Erh, don't ask. Oh, in 9th grade, I partook in the National Physics Olympiad and came in fifth place (Shocking! I know!). I didn't know I had it. I didn't how I did it. More importantly, now, I don't know how I lost it.
After 9th grade, I flew over to Singapore. First time entering an all-boy school-- yuck. I was introduced to NAPFA. I hated NAPFA. I lost 15 kg failing NAPFA (The irony of this sentence is just delicious!). Nothing much, I was one of those scholars who had relentless obsession with grades, but for what it's worth I did very well for O's. I made some real friends in secondary school, live-long ones whom I know I can depend on, even if I told them that I killed someone. In JC, I met dance, albeit JC-hiphop dance. We all know the story and what ensued. Then, I entered my IB education and had my first Shakespeare (King Lear) at the age of 18. Against my parents' preference, I entered law school last last year. We also know how this story continues.
Oh, age 20, I discovered contemporary jazz.
I guess that's it. I probably missed quite a number of things, but I can only recall so many things in one post. I guess, the one million dollar question now is: what do I want for my birthday? Actually I don't know. Enough wishful thoughts on dance, and I think I'm pretty contented with what I have right now. Perhaps one thing that I can make me a better person is crying. I want to cry for my birthday. Strange, I know, but I just don't cry anymore. I don't. I don't know why I don't. May be my childhood trauma has dried up my tear ducts. May be I forgot how to cry. May be I'm too fucking strong to cry. I have no idea. But yeah, I want to cry for my birthday.
/the sharp knife of a short life/
/I've had just enough time/
