Hiatus

Let me explain my hiatus.

To do that, let me guide you through a journey somewhere around the vicinity of my last post.

If you've read my previous posts, you'd notice my knack for spotting bad days in the horizon. Sometimes the colours seem off. Sometimes, things smell weird. Sometimes, I just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. Today, however, I'm staring at a beautiful sunrise, coffee in hand, the relaxing quiet of a world still in slumber, and I say to myself, "It's going to be a bad day."

So I get to work and check my e-mail. I had to translate a 500 word article and double its length. Nevermind the fact that I had to expand an inefficient language into a language famous for brevity. I open the client's feedback and it reads:

First sentence dah salah. Anjuran does not mean sponsored. Sultan punya title pun salah. Ini pakai google translate ke? And snag a medal? What kind of English is that? The dean is going to be very disappointed with this article.

I take a deep breath as I feel a slight pinch in my solar plexus. The following e-mail is from my boss:

What is this? It's very humiliating. Fix it.

I'm pretty sure my boss didn't read the article. I turn over to my colleague three desks down. "Hey Iqa!"

"Ya?"

"Anjuran tu apa dalam Basa Ingris?"

"Uh... organised kot."

"Oh."

I turn the other way. "Greg."

"What's up?"

"We don't quote 'Yang Bahagia' in titles, right?"

"Nope. House style."

Don't even get me started on 'snag a medal'. I'll just credit that to the receiver's lack of lingual expression.

So I've only struck out once. I start composing an e-mail to my editor, hoping to find salvation somewhere. As if on cue, her e-mail reaches the servers in reply to my boss:

Language-wise, the article is well written. The only mistakes could be in the facts. Stu, double-check.

At least someone's got my back.

I call the client's PR department, explain what's going on, and tell them that the vetting process entails mutual corrections, not blatant mockery.

Half a day later and the vetted article is sent back. The only correction? They took out 'sponsored' and changed it to 'organised'. Yeah, a thousand words, and they only changed one.

To say I'm livid would be an understatement at this point. All that fuss when she could've just changed that one single word herself. Still, I give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she woke up with less colours in her day. Maybe her day smelt different. Maybe she woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but it doesn't change the fact that she's a colossal bitch.

Problem solved, right? No. Another e-mail comes in as soon as this fiasco ends:

Your article wasn't very well-written. I asked you to spice it up. It's not interesting enough.

What is this, complain week? 'Spice it up' is the designer equivalent of 'make it pop', and I'll never live up to your expectations if you don't tell me what to fix specifically. Do you need more mention about your courses? Do you need to highlight certain events? Do you need more sex scenes?

When I was a hairdresser, criticism just slid off me. Couldn't produce a proper financial statement when I was an auditor? Too bad, boss. But when someone criticises my literary work, the gloves come off. I start to understand the people crying over their results slip after getting eight A's instead of nine.

The discouragement hits me, and it isn't long before I'm taking a self-proclaimed day off from work, and by 'day off' I mean sulking at the office corner with a cup of coffee over the surreptitious stares of my colleagues.

"Chase your dreams," I say to myself. "Money doesn't matter if you're doing what you love. What a load of bull." I contemplate going for a money-based career instead of a passion-based one. My train of thought was that you're going to get screwed at your job regardless, might as well make it worth it. An SMS from my editor snaps me back to reality.

Do better next time. Chin up.

It's a sweet gesture, but it's too late to stop me from distancing myself from writing. Over the coming months, the only writing I'll do is job-related, and my journals and blogs get put on the back burner.

But like a can of beer beckoning the recovering alcoholic, the desire calls forever. It whispers silently whenever I pass a bookstore, whenever I find myself struggling through a Hemingway or a Nabokov. Like a siren's call, seeing a pen always spurs my heart into writing something, even if it's gibberish. I can abandon literature as much as I want, but it will never loosen its grip on me.

And I know that I'll never escape it. Writing is a part of me that I can never let go. No matter where I am in life, I know that this is my one true form of self-expression. And on this day, as fate would have it, I find a pen beside a box of tissues. I pull a two-ply out of the box and scribble:

Let me explain my hiatus.

Life on the moon

You'd expect an alarm clock to help people keep time. Not in my world. The piercing ring yanks me from slumber, but only because I've heard it for the seventh time, thanks to the snooze button. I swear that button was invented by Satan himself.

I wake up to a colourless day. Everything seems grey, not because it's threatening to pour, but because things feel out of place. Something's probably going to go wrong today.

Yes, sometimes the days seem monochrome. Sometimes they lack smell, sound, sharpness. I'm not weird, I just can't help noticing these things. Things like how a woman's lower lips sag on a bitchy resting face, or how a self conscious guy buries his face in his armpits to check for body odour, but acts as though he's wiping his chin on his sleeve.

By the time I leave my house, I'm already fifteen minutes late. I message a colleague for alibi inception.

ME: OMG so jam. Jam for you too?
GREG: Weird. Roads were clear for me. Try to reach before 10.

I do reach before 10:00. In fact, I'm there at 9:57. Thing is, work starts at 9:30. I tiptoe my way to my desk, avoiding eye contact, because God forbid someone announces my arrival with a good morning.

I reach my desk unnoticed, or at least I think not. Good. Now time for Facebook.

Three messages. Before I begin procrastinating, the browser blinks. A message in Google Talk.

EDITOR: Engineering story finished?
ME: First drafts, yeah. Will mail you once they're polished.
EDITOR: Ok. By the way, why so late?
ME: Because I WAS traffic.
EDITOR: Lame. Finish the story. By today.
ME: Ok.

Minutes pass, and as I mould paragraphs of junk into better sounding junk, my browser blinks again.

ANDREW: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s9d52h5gXl0 Let's try to jam this song for our next office jam session.
ME: Ok will check it out.

I check it out not because I'm in the mood for music, but because I love procrastinating. I put my headphones on and drown out the outside world with music.

Here in this crowd, I'm feeling all alone,
Turn me around, and point me back to home.

I like listening to music while editing. It helps me stay focused.

Life on the moon couldn't be any stranger,
Life on the moon wouldn't feel this far away.

An e-mail comes in:
Hi Stuart,
The website is up. Would now be a good time to port all the data to the new site?

I'm all alone in this crowded room,
It's like life on the moon.

As I'm replying the e-mail, another beep.

BOSS: Did you receive Ad's e-mail? Make sure you have all data ready and ask him to proceed.
ME: Okay.

Did I mention that my boss sits twelve feet away from me? This is how communication takes place in the office. Not that I mind, I'm not much of a talker anyway.

A couple hours pass and the lunch messages come in:

ANU: What's for lunch?
ME: I packed.
GREG: Are you going for lunch?
ME: Nope.
ANU: You suck.

A montage of me writing and making coffee ensues. Many hours later, it's time to go home, but by the time I leave, everyone's already gone. I look out the window and traffic looks bad. Might as well drop by the gym and do some yoga.

I reach the gym hoping to see someone I know. Something seems off today but I can't quite put a finger on it. None of the regulars show up, and I'm stuck to ruminate on my own in my puddle of sweat.

After class in the locker room, I check my phone and there's two messages. One is about Maxis' latest caller ringtone, and the other's from Jane.

JANE: Dinner? Message received 19:04

I check my watch. 20:30. Agh.

ME: Sorry was in yoga. Dinner?
JANE: Ah, thought you were busy, I bought dinner already.
ME: Np.

It's probably better this way. Exercise always makes me want to eat healthier anyway. I still can't shake the weird feeling of gloom that's been following me like the scent of perfume that follows a woman seconds after she walks past.

I get ready for bed and pull out my book. I leaf through but I can't seem to concentrate. A song keeps playing in my head. The Germans have a specific phrase for this. Then again, the Germans have a specific phrase for everything.

"It's pronounced our vorm," a German friend once told me.

"Our vorm," I said.

"Yeah! Just like that! You're good with accents!" he laughed.

Now this ear worm is threatening to eat me inside out. I try thinking of another song. Doesn't work. Damn you Andrew. The song's so catchy I can't help but to sing it aloud.

"Life on the moon couldn't be any stranger, life on the moon wouldn't feel this far away."

Then I stop.

I make a mental jog of the day's events and realise I've just uttered my first words of the day.

Well fuck me.

The thought of calling someone for a chat crosses my mind, but it's past people's bedtime, so I decide to sleep it off. I toss and turn as I flirt between the borders of dreams and reality.

I dream that I'm locked in a cell with corners draped in darkness. It's damp in this brick cell, much like a brick walkway after a drizzle. There's nothing in here except a certain coldness. A voice that sounds like a blend between a rusty hinge and a whisper calls out: "Alone."

Outside, festivities are taking place. People are having fun. People getting drunk. People kissing and hugging and laughing and singing. I walk towards the metal bars and there's the smell of happiness. The scent of alcohol mingles with cigars. Outside, there is joy. I stand there for a moment, gripping the bars, looking with longing.

"Alone," the voice calls out again.

"Hello? Guys! I'm over here. Hello? Help! Guys?"

None of them pay any attention to me.

"Guys? Hello?"

I hear something drag itself out of the corners of my cell. I stumble back and fall on the stone floor, my hands splashing in the murk caught in the cracks between the bricks. That... thing shambles towards me. It doesn't have a head—no God no—it does have a head. I think it's snapped back, because I see wisps of hair swinging from the creature's back.

I back up to the cell wall, watching in horror as that thing drags itself closer. Its hands stretch outwards, and I try to scream for the last time but nothing comes out. Its hands wrap around my neck as its head slowly erects from behind. By the time we come face-to-face, I already have my eyes shut tight.

The sound of happiness mere metres away from me drowns out as its hands slowly tighten around my neck. The darkness starts taking me, but all I remember is its voice. The same voice that sounds like something between nails on a blackboard and the biting frost of winter.

I'm alone in this crowded room,
It's like life on the moon.

Dance in the rain

It's April 2013 and I'm catching up with Sha. We should get an award for nonchalance because despite losing touch for years, this is how our pre-meetup chat went down:

"Hey Sha, long time no see, catch up?"

"Sure, gym later? I can bring guests."

"Which?"

"Fitness First IOI."

"Ok. Time?"

"After work, say 7."

"Ok."

"Ok."

After our workout, Sha comes out of the locker room all fresh and ready for dinner.

"I'm so hungry I could eat Sarah Jessica Parker!" she says. "And I thought a 36-hour shift at the hospital would've killed my appetite."

Sha flexes her biceps in an effort to show off. "By the way, I did chest and arms today! How do I look?"

Now beauty is subjective, and I don't know why I get so much flak when I share my attraction of athletic women with my friends (they prefer stick thin). Sha doesn't do Crossfit, but she looks the part. I take a second to admire her curves before telling her the truth.

"I don't think muscles grow that fast."

Sha laughs. "Tapi cantik kan?"

I look at Sha. Behind her glowing skin, her physical strength, her boundless energy, and her positive outlook is a monkey on her back. You see, Sha's a cancer survivor.

She's won the battle a couple of times, but she needs to keep looking over her shoulder. Cancer is relentless. It bears grudges, and once you start easing off, it catches up, then clamps its jaws around you and never lets go.

Fast forward to Subway and Sha's calorie replacement of choice is the BLT. She doesn't just eat it, she gobbles it like it's a hot dog eating competition. There's just something charming about a woman eating proper. Maybe I'm just biased against nibblers. They're too suspect for my liking.

"Let's grab some Juiceworks later," I say.

"Hell yeah!" Sha says, but with her mouth full it sounds more like hur yhe. She wipes the honey mustard off the corners of her mouth and says that she roves jushworksh. Her enthusiasm is inspiring. I wish I could siphon some of that liveliness off her because my energy dial is usually stuck between 'dead fish' and 'mildly awake'.

Fifteen minutes pass and sandwiches are a thing of the past. We're sitting cross legged on one of those big shopping mall benches with our juices of choice. (It was near closing time, so takeaway was the only option).

Sha shows me her neck and asks me to touch it. There's something under the skin near her collarbone, and its shaped like a Lego man's head.

"When I was sick, I was being pumped with meds so frequently that they decided it would be easier to have an IV permanently inserted."

"That's fucking badass," I say, because it was. "You must be pretty particular about the procedures, you know, being a doctor and all."

Sha laughs. "No troubles so far."

As we continue shooting the shit, my complaints about bad career choices and crappy relationships seem to pale in comparison with the things she's had to face. To her credit, she's good spirited about the whole thing, especially when she shares the toughest, darkest moments in her life. Suddenly, she stops smiling and looks past me.

"Sometimes I ask God, why me?" A single tear rolls down her cheek, then two, leaving lines of moisture where they've just streaked. "Did I do something wrong? Why did I deserve this?"

For a moment, I see a look on her face of someone tired of being strong. Someone who wishes she could unload this burden elsewhere and kick up her legs just for a bit. She takes a deep breath, and just like that, the strong woman returns.

"Silly me, silly thoughts," she says as she wipes her tears with the palm of her hand.

"They're not silly," I say.

"I believe that everything happens for a reason," Sha says. "Sometimes I see terminally ill kids at work, and I start to realise that my problems aren't so big after all. Who am I to complain when some poor kids can't even see past the first decade of their life? I guess their lives serve to remind us the value of ours, no matter how unfair it may seem."

She looks at my shoulder, brows furrowed in contemplation for a minute, then: "You're a 'live the moment' kind of guy aren't you? I'm sure I treasure my moments more than you ever will. Maybe that's my silver lining."

There's so much beauty in her attitude amidst her vulnerability, a moment I'm privileged to be a part of. I don't know how I'd react when I'm finally forced to face my mortality, but something tells me that following Sha's footsteps would be a good place to start. We sit in silence for a while, regrouping our thoughts, sipping on juice. I start feeling small. Here I am complaining about things that don't matter while other people face real problems.

"Speaking of the moment," Sha says, "you should go to Thailand. You hate your job, you're not tied down, you're healthy. Go. Resign. Find another job when you come back. Go find yourself. Live life." This sentence would be one of the catalysts that sets forth an awesome chain of events in my life, but we're unaware of this fact as of this moment.

"I guess I sh—"

"Tak boleh duduk sini," a voice from behind us says. "Sudah tutup."

We turn around and see an old man with a blue shirt tucked into pressed navy pants. There's a tag above his pocket with the word 'SECURITY' etched into it.

I check my watch. "Wow it's past midnight! I didn't even realise the time."

"Kejap lagi kay?" Sha says to the guard, then turns over and looks at me. "I guess story time's over."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

"Next time then?"

"After your Thailand trip. Promise me you'll make that happen."

"I will."

We hug and part ways. I leave feeling like my perspective just went through a huge transformation, like the makeover episodes in Beauty and the Geek. I notice how much impact she's made on me within those few hours, and I realise that we shouldn't take our interactions with other people for granted because we might end up playing a significant role in their lives even with the most minutest of exchanges.

As I walk to my car, I start drafting a resignation letter in my head. Maybe everything does happen for a reason.

***

Since that day, Sha has undergone another cancer-related surgery. She is still making the most out of life and is doing well. I hope her story inspires people to not sweat the small stuff, because in the end, it's all small stuff.

All I have to do is...

Note: Sorry to all my readers (all three of you) for the huge delay in articles! My computer broke, and it's hard to find a place to upload, edit and arrange the layout. Also, life has kept me busy. Guess it's back to pens and legal pads until then.

***

It isn't a familiar place, I can't quite put a finger on the location, but it seems like home, and that's where I see her. She walks up to me with those smiling eyes. I'd recognise those eyes anywhere. When we first met, those little globes were the first thing I noticed about her. Everytime she smiled, those brown soul-windows would say: I'll always be here for you.

Perhaps I read them wrongly. Maybe that look didn't mean a thing. I probably got ahead of myself, set up my own emotional demise. I'll never know.

"It's... it's you," I say. The rest of my words are stuck behind a veil of stupor.

"Yes," she smiles. "India didn't work out after all."

"Ah."

"Maybe I should get a job, settle down." She holds my hand. It feels strange, but familiar. Like coming home after being away for a long time. "Have you been taking care of Russells?"

Russells was a random plant we picked up at a DIY store back when we wanted to start a garden. It got its name from her liking of Brussles sprouts and mine of Russell Brand. It died a year ago, but for some reason this logic escapes me. "Yeah."

"How's things?" she asks.

"Good... good. How was your trip?"

"It sucked. Everything sucked, and the accommodation... God. Don't you think it's too bright in here?" She turns off a switch, but the lights stay on. Weird. Also, her verbal derailing doesn't seem to faze me.

"Well that sucks." I find no out from articulating with a tied tongue. I've always wondered what I'd say when she comes back, if I'd be pissed or if I'd forgive. If I'd hold a grudge and never pick up her calls, or if she'd ever call at all. This encounter has shed some light on that. Spurts. I'll be dealing with our unresolved issues in spurts. With monosyllables.

She comes close and wraps her arms around me. A hug that says everything's going to be alright. A hug I'm probably reading too much into. A hug that's much too warm and comfortable for someone I've not talked to in months.

With our heads side by side, I feel her breath on my neck as she says: "I'm back now. I'll always be here for you."

Doubt creeps in. I've heard this before. She said the same exact words not long before she left for another country, leaving me to pick up the pieces. The same words I saw in her eyes from the first day I met her. My own foolish hope. My own downfall.

Everything starts to make sense. Why I'm here in this obscure location. Why the lights didn't turn off when they were supposed to. Why I have no capacity of logic or memory. The surroundings start losing their edges. Everything starts fading away. These thoughts come and go in milliseconds, the mind putting pieces together at a blinding pace, a phenomenon hard to explain, but one that everyone has been through.

I tighten my arms around her and brace for the inevitability.

"But you said you'd always be here..." I whisper. Everything else turns into a canvas of darkness and the last memory I have of my alternate reality are those eyes. I'll always be here for you.

For a moment, I wish that me waking up from the dream was just a dream, and things were back to before she left, but even that is just a dream.

They say time heals all wounds. I guess I haven't paid my dues. I've spent months trying to settle my emotional debt in one day increments.

I sigh as I roll out of bed. Another day.

Writer's block

Why do I write?

Today the blank page seems to be winning. I'm slouched over my keyboard hoping for material to manifest itself through my fingers but that’s not happening. I'm going through the motions, keeping my writing muscles supple, but I'm starting to lose sight of the purpose of why I write.

I'm fifty words into my thousand word quota and the cursor just sits there blinking, as if to ask "You gonna type anything, buddy?"

I try to come up with a shitty first draft, but nothing seems to stick. Stories go nowhere, words don't flow, I'm feeling uninspired. I recall a saying from Peter DeVries, "I write when I'm inspired, and I see to it that I'm inspired at nine o'clock every morning," so I plod on.

I trudge through this madness like only sick people do, and it so happens my sick mind commonly holds monologues in italics. There's no point to it all, it says. You're never gonna become anything worth their weight in words. Why bother? It's not like you write anything interesting. Just look at yourself now, staring at the blank screen. By the way, we're out of bread so remember to get some tomorrow.

I sigh and check Facebook. Nope, nothing new. I switch back and stare at the empty page. A thousand words? You gotta be kidding me. Why not go to sleep? It's midnight.

"But midnight is my nine o'clock!" I say. "Get inspired damnit!"

Don't yell at me. You can't expect me to come up with material without feeding me alcohol. You know how it goes.

"I have work tomorrow! You wanna kill us both?"

I look around and make sure no one’s around. If anyone is, it'd be easier to say I'm on drugs than to explain my outward reflections.

Maybe my mind's right. Maybe there's no point to it all. I switch back to Facebook. I hit the Home button out of habit but accidentally click on my profile page. On it are some of my old blog posts, and at the bottom of each, there's always a couple of people who like my posts. I browse through my inbox and read the random messages that made my day. They still do. Stuff like "Hey, just want to let you know that I enjoy your writing. Keep it up!" from people you haven't seen in a while really does nudge you to go on even when you're tired.

I re-open my blog and start again. I might as well write about my literary impotence instead of brooding over it.

Half an hour passes before I get another page of junk, but at least it's a finished first draft. The amount of half written pieces in my draft box is beyond silly. A writer once said "Quitting a page into your novel is not much different than quitting five hundred pages in. It's still unfinished," and I agree. I feel the odd satisfaction that only comes with hard work, and I get ready to sleep. Editing can wait (which explains the late post this week).

So why do I write?

Because I once heard someone say. "Leave everything better than when you found it."

Sometimes the comments I get are beyond simple appreciation. Sometimes they tell me that they really look forward to my posts every week, or that I have real interesting ideas, or that they enjoy looking at things from a different perspective from their own, or because the words are inspiring.

I may not be as influential as Gandhi or Mother Theresa, may not inspire as many as Mandela, may not change a whole country's history like Martin Luther King, but I do have words. And with these words, I hope to leave the world a better place, no matter how slightly, one soul at a time.

And if you can get over the narcissism and me shamelessly tooting my own horn, then that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I write.

Living well isn't bad

"Mmm... yuuh. Thish ish shooo goog..." I say through a mouthful of medium-rare steak. "I havan hag shteak fo sho long!"

"You haven't had anything in so long," Ling says.

It's cheat day. A mixture of blood and oil coats my tongue as the meat melts in my mouth. "Yeah, it's good to have some sin once in a while."

"You're so boring!"

"Wha—"

"Dude all you eat are vegetables and fruits, and steamed chicken breast, and your eggs, and your oats. I can't imagine life like that!"

Yup, count on close friends to be blunt with you. I like it. It keeps me honest.

"But what's wrong with that?"

"You eat tasteless food! And... and... it’s so boring!"

"What. Have you even eaten an apple before? They're delicious!"

"Boring!"

"Okay you need to stop saying boring."

"Life is short. You should enjoy it," Ling says, eyeing the next table of smokers.

"But... I am enjoying life!"

"Why deprive yourself of happiness like the steak you're eating right now?" 

"So you're saying that to be happy, I should cram myself with junk. You do know that I have cancer and a heart attack just waiting to happen, right? Genes and all that jazz."

"You're still young. You don't need to take care of your diet yet!"

Now I'm no nutrition saint. I don't try fad diets, I don't stare at other people and tut at their choice of cholesterol, I don't try to impose lifestyle tips upon anyone, and I'm definitely lax on the amount of cheat days I allow myself per week (3 most weeks, 5 when I get cravings like a pregnant woman). All I do is eat clean as often as I can, so pardon me if I get weirded out when someone says I'm wasting my life away by being healthy.

"And exercising five days a week? So lifeless," Ling says in a hush as a waiter tops off her bottomless lemon tea.

"What. I don't even—"

"Excuse me, can I have an ashtray please?"

The waiter nods and leaves.

"Okay fine. I'm too healthy. I'll start eating more junk from now on," I lie. The hell I would. Mixed fruits and oats taste beyond awesome.

The waiter returns with an ashtray. Ling rummages through her handbag and produces a new pack of cigarettes. She gives it a couple of thwacks then sticks one of the cancer sticks into her mouth. She bends over to the next table and gestures for a lighter. There's this amazing camaraderie among smokers. Never will a smoker be deprived of a lighter anywhere in the world with the international sign-language of thumb wiggling.

She lights up, inhales, looks upwards, exhales. Her free hand swats away stray wisps of smoke from my face. At least she's a 'considerate' smoker. I watch her do the smoker's equivalent of rinse and repeat. Inhale cancer cocktail, look up, exhale life away, swat remaining smoke. I recall a story at the back of my mind.

There was this dad who fathered two sons. He never got a job, beat his wife and kids regularly, and finally got sentenced to jail for murder. Later on in life, one son grew up to be a loving father and a very successful entrepreneur, while the other lived a life of crime and spent most of his life incarcerated. When asked how they came to that point in life, both said the exact same thing: "What else was I supposed to do, growing up with such a father?"

That's how I feel right now. One group of people would bring up their indulgence with pride, and another group would advocate healthy living, and both sides will come to the same conclusion when asked why they're taking such a stance: "What else is there to do when life is so short?"

I believe in neither school of thought. There's no black and white in life, no fixed way to go about it. With life being as transient as it is, it's silly to impose rules and instructions for it. People seem to think there's a one-size-fits-all manual for life in the form of philosophy, religion or self-help books. I just believe that you should go for whatever makes you tick in life, as long as you don't hurt anyone or yourself. Also, I believe that a healthy body is able to enjoy life much better than a sick one.

Ling finishes her first cigarette and chain-lights her second stick with the former.

"You really live life, don't you?" I raise my hands and bend my index and middle fingers at the words 'live life' while looking at her cigarette. A smirk butters across my face as I know exactly what she's about to say.

"Yeah. Life is short."

Earning a living and living a life

I'm at a coffee house with my Jo and Tan and we're having a long awaited catchup session.

It's two o'clock and Tan says he has to leave at four. He needs to go through a company's profile before he goes over to audit them tomorrow.

"But it's a Sunday man," I say. "At least take the day off."

"What do you think I'm doing now?"

I shrug. "I don't want to sound like a hippie, but there's much more to life than work."

"Well that's easy for you to say. You don't have bills to pay."

"Hey, no one forced you to buy that fancy car. No one asked you to go around swiping your card—and while we're at it, have you even used that treadmill since you bought it?"

"Yeah yeah, you're Mr. Savvy, right? Prepaid lines and ten year old car. Hey look at me! I don't have shit and I have so much time to enjoy life!"

"Chill dude. I just wanted you to have a day off. It's your life. But personal attacks like that, that's not cool, man."

"Yeah, you have nothing to pay for, you can bum all you want, sipping coffee on the weekends. Some of us have to make a living you know. Just ask Jo."

"Hey," Jo says. "Leave me out of this."

I'm not sure why Tan got his knickers in a twist, but I'm not proud of being the one who triggered it. Tan's a typical auditor. He works before the sun rises and comes home after the sun sets. He never gets to see daylight other than from the windows of his clients' offices, and his weekends are spent poring over new portfolios assigned to him. My paycheque might be chump change to him, but he seems to be more shackled than ever.

Tan ends up leaving at two thirty, and Jo has the rest of the day off, so we head off to do some grocery shopping.

"Is it wrong to have no responsibilities?" I ask.

"Just let him be. He must've been stressed."

"Do you think I'm a bum?"

"You're fine, Stu. Don't worry about it."

"Am I a bum just because I choose not to have debt?"

"Shh. Don't think so much."

Moments later, as I'm filling the trolley with tomatoes and carrots, Jo asks, "What would be your last thoughts before you die?"

"Morbid question, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but when you guys were arguing earlier, I started thinking if money really is worth losing your life over."

"I guess we all need to find that balance between earning a living and living a life.”

  

“My last thoughts would probably be spent thinking if I’ve loved enough, and if I’ll regret the things I’ve done, or the ones I did not,” Jo says with a distant stare in her eyes. “And also my cat.”

“You cat lovers are crazy, you know that?”

Jo hits me on the arm. I smile. Lately, I’ve started to have a different relationship with time, and even though I’m only human and I tend to falter when it comes to living life, I always try to enjoy the present, because that’s the only thing that’s real. Connecting with people is one of the simple moments I enjoy, and I stop to bask in the moment.

A lot of people might be ahead of me in terms of money and possessions, and I don’t know why but I still feel like I’m the lucky one.

Never try never know

* This story has been sitting in my drafts box for a long time. It doesn't reflect the state of my life now.

Steph and I wake up to the scent of dew and flowers. The sun's halfway through its passage but it feels like morning's just dawned. I look at the clock. It's 1 p.m.

"Um, babe," I ask. "What time do they stop serving breakfast again?"

"Twelve."

"Shit."

I expected Steph to show a little more concern, like the type you show when you lose your wallet, or when you're in the middle of nowhere at night and the car won't start, but all she does is shrug.

"Let's get ready, we might still make it," she says. 

I object with fervour, which in reality is sulking with a little whine.

 "Just change and let's go. C'mon!"

"Fine." 

I grunt and roll out of bed. It's a stupid idea. I've been in the service industry and have been on the receiving end of silly requests. Stuff like slotting a 4 hour appointment 10 minutes before closing time, or asking for a 50% discount just because. I have a very special place for these people. I cast them under the group: 'people with shallow reservoirs for common sense'.

I make a big fuss out of this whole ordeal and I make sure Steph knows that "No one asks for breakfast during lunchtime", but I figure that food is scarce up here, and the breakfast is worth triple digits in ringgits so why not?

It takes us 15 minutes to get ready and we run down to the restaurant only to find the remaining breakfast stragglers up to the dregs of their tea. The kitchen's gearing up for lunch and the breakfast menus have already been replaced with their midday counterparts. The waiter comes over. I feel silly already.

"I feel silly," I whisper to Steph.

"Shh, ask him."

"This um... I feel silly but... we missed our breakfast. Woke up late. Yeah. Um... can we have breakfast?"

My cheeks feel warm. I look at the waiter and wonder if he's casting me into a group. To my surprise, he doesn't even bat an eyelid.

"Sure, sir," I can't make out if his stolidness is benevolent or if he's secretly wishing for my death. "Have a seat while I get the breakfast menus."

One on hand, I'm glad it was a success. On the other, I wish the waiter didn't accommodate us because I'm pretty sure Steph is thinking of seven different ways to say she told me so.

 "I told you—"

"Shut up."

Steph laughs.

As I eat my poached eggs, beef sausage, bacon, beans, cereal, toast, muffin, and coffee in silent defeat, Steph takes my hand and smiles. I smile back. She operates on a different set of rules as I do, and I always assume that if it's not my way, it's not the right way. And she proves me wrong—a lot.

As we finish our breakfast and take a walk in their garden, I start thinking about how many things we pass up just because of the limits we bind ourselves with. Our life experiences help us grow but it prevents us from taking action through fear, but it doesn't make sense to eschew fire—the greatest invention of man—just because we've been burned, right?

Also, I start thinking about how the world is more than what we can sense. Our five senses try to paint a picture of the world for us, but there are so many things beyond our five sense and we'll never be able to understand them because we're just not made that way.

Imagine seeing with your ears or tongue. Imagine having sight that extends for miles or being able to perceive beyond the spectrum of light. Imagine super-hearing or keen sense of smell. There are creatures that perceive life this way, but to us, this is our reality, and if it's not our way, then it's the wrong way. It's weird how we share this world with so many other forms of life, and we each have our own perspective on what reality is. Then I come to the question: What is reality?

So many possibilities, so many angles, damn near unanswerable. Beautiful.

Before I know it, it's the next day, and we wake up at 1 p.m. again.

"Let's go!" I say, one hand holding onto my jeans and the other brushing my teeth. "We're gonna be late for checkout!"

Steph's eyes are half open. She's still in bed. "I don't waaaannaaaaa..." she says.

"Wake up or they're gonna charge us for overstaying."

"No they won't."

"Yes they will."

"No, they won't. Come back to bed."

I do, and we leave at 2.

As we lug our bags to the counter, I nudge Steph over.

"Your turn."

"Hi!" she says. "I'm sorry we woke up late. We'd like to checkout please."

Steph smiles. The receptionist smiles. I wonder if we're being cast into any group of misfits. 

We check out without extra surcharges.

Never try, never know.

Tribulations of being young

People have always said I look young. They say I’m lucky. They say I’ve won the genetic lottery (despite being short). They say I’ll learn to appreciate it someday. I’ve lived past my third decade and it’s going to be another three more before I start appreciating my youthful looks. By then, peeing every two hours or worrying about arthritis will probably matter more than looking young.

It might sound like a first world problem, but looking young does have its disadvantages. Let’s start with benign matters, like girls. After my twenties, finding a date has been progressively harder, and each passing year is like upping the difficulty on an already unbeatable game. My peers mature, and I seem to be stuck with youth, and women within my generation start finding me cute, or adorable, or non-threatening, or the term all guys loathe: a nice guy.

Well I could live with that. After all, men age like wine and women like cheese, so I figure I still have some time left in the market, but what irks me more than women problems is not being taken seriously. I remember back when I was working in the hair industry, when I had six years of experience under my belt. By then, I had already disfigured hundreds of heads, and beautified thousands more, so I wasn’t too shabby. One day a customer came in—and upon realising that I was her stylist—wouldn't let me touch her mane until she was sure I wasn't a student or a junior stylist. That was my moment of realisation that looking young isn’t all that it’s hyped up to be.

And if that wasn’t enough, looking young also leaks into other facets of life such as getting service. Whenever I walk into higher end establishments, the host always accommodates the more ‘powerful’ looking man first. This usually is a guy with a jowl, is a head taller than me, has peppered hair, and a full moustache to go with it.

“Sir? Table for two? Definitely. Oh, you want that four-seater? I guess you can. Right this way please.”

Then I walk up: “Sup bro. Two people? Over there, by the toilet, okay?”

Of course, a mature appearance isn’t the end all, be all, but I suspect it’d make my life a whole lot easier.

I remember a couple of years back when I went back to college to get an education. On my first day of school, while making friends with my new classmates, most of them asked me if I was waiting for my SPM results. That’s how much of a thug I am. I’m living decades behind.

Then there’s this time when I was an educator in the hair industry, and I was bringing the students to fire safety training. The class was meant only for students, so I decided to check out them shiny fire trucks. Five minutes later a fireman shouted, “Oi! Kenapa tak masuk class? Ponteng ka? Mana cikgu you?” It got pretty awkward after he understood the situation. At least he made up for it by letting me play with the trucks and on the sliding pole.

There’s also this one time when Lola and I were grabbing drinks at Friday’s. Again, I was approaching my thirties. As we ordered our Long Islands, the waiter asked to see my IC because according to him, “The legal drinking age in clubs is 18, but here it’s 21”.

Now don’t get this confused with oldness. I don’t want to look like Hugh Hefner, but I wouldn’t mind the charms of George Clooney or Richard Gere. I don’t want saggy balls, lower libido, and a receding hairline, but I don’t want to look like an SK-II commercial either.

But maybe they're right. Maybe when I'm older, I’ll still look 18, and I’ll be glad about it. For now though, I’ll be happy enough if I don’t get mistaken for a freshie during interviews.

It's there for your convenience, not the other way around

I'm stuck in a jam (what's new right?) and lone drivers around me have the glow of LEDs on their faces. On my left is someone on her mobile phone. I look to my right, more text-driving. I look in the rear and it’s Mr. Gold Digger! Just kidding. It’s just some guy on his mobile phone. The only person to break the monotony is an old man reading the papers. I know what you're thinking. Who even reads newspapers anymore, am I right? This man takes text-driving to a whole new level, but at least he's a refreshing sight from the other commuters.

I can imagine some of the drivers taking selfies for Facebook so they can post stuff like “so jam now… haihz,” before gracing unsuspecting surfers with their duck-faces. What I don’t get is the need people have to be on their phones all the time, especially during driving. 

Well no biggie right? Because it's only FATAL! Nothing to be concerned about. No sir.

Sadly, that's not the end of my tribulations. I arrive at the gym only to find its employees busy with their phones. I go into the changing room and there’s a dude taking pictures of his biceps. In the toilet, there’s this douche that thinks everyone’s interested in his phone conversation, which by the way is something about a drunk shag he had last night. I'm pretty sure he's giving himself way more credit than the other side of the story. Then I walk out to the gym floor and the bicycle section is filled with people—on their phones. Really? Why?

They're barely even pedalling. I see them flicking away at their screens. My guess is they're trying to get past level 238 on Candy Crush. It’s funny seeing how these guys juggle their attention between their legs and their phones though. Some of them stop pedalling until they remember they’re supposed to be working out. Then they manage a burst before losing concentration and the whole routine repeats itself.

At least that shit's not happening in the yoga room, right? Especially when the sign outside the door says ‘NO MOBILE PHONES ALLOWED’ right? I throw my hands up in exasperation. Guess not. A few ladies are punching texts in the corner, oblivious to the instructor wanting to start the class. Okay maybe they're insecure about leaving their valuables in the locker, I get it, but at least have the decency to turn those damn things off.

Halfway into class, the phone rings, for the fourth time. The owner doesn’t even bother turning it off. This always happens when this particular woman comes to class. Zen? How about I give her a knuckle Zenwich? A fleeting thought passes of me channelling my passive-aggressiveness and tutting her into submission, but my hands are in a knot and I’m standing on one foot, so breathing alone is labour enough. Our instructor asks us to empty our minds. Can't you live without your phone for an hour? That’s as empty as it gets for now.

After class I’m fidgety and feel like punching ladybirds. I walk out of the gym and—God they’re everywhere—everyone is fixed to their mobile devices. It’s like that research where they ask you to focus on a specific colour in your surroundings, and suddenly you see more of it everywhere you look. Or like when you buy a new car, and magically the same model starts popping up on the road.

People aren’t looking where they're walking, not seeing what they're eating, or even talking to their friends they're out with. It’s like an episode of The Walking Dead, only instead of being brain dead from a virus, victims turn undead through technology. Apple plays the bad guy, introducing new virus strains every year in the form of iPhones. Telco companies partner up in man's demise, helping spread the plague through the use of affordable data plans, and soon enough a child from the future would go back to destroy the first ever Motorola to save mankind from their doom! Okay I might have mixed up the movies. I'm not a big movie buff.

When I get in my car, I take out my trusted notepad and scribble:

People stuffing their heads in technology (which will end up as this article).

My brows furrow. Something’s missing. I add:

Possible Walking Dead spoof.

Don’t judge. This is how I get ideas for stories.

But I digress. I'm glad I went through school without a mobile phone. Appointments had nothing on us. Also, it made telecommunication a commodity.

“Subang Parade? Sure, see you at 10. I’ll be at Grandy’s.”

“Movies? Awesome. Let’s see if we can catch the same bus. If I don’t see you, be at the cinema at 3.”

"Stay by the phone at 11. If your mom picks up, I'm hanging up."

Yeah, not as convenient, but many times the awesome. Kids back then knew how to live.

At the risk of sounding unpopular, I've never understood why some people say "I can't live without my mobile phone." I find that sentence filled to the brim with throes of consumerism. Unless you're using it to run a business, there's many more things that affect your livelihood, and this is not one of them.

The mobile phone makes our lives easier, I’ll give it that. It’s now possible to reach anyone, anywhere, anytime; but I wonder if that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe the reason why I’m unattached to my phone is because no one contacts me on it. So if you’re reading this and you have my number, please call me.

I reach home and my phone vibrates. A message from Jay.

Jay: yo im stuck in traffic now dm jam shit. wan yamcha not

Me: ur driving now?

Jay: ya why

Me: you suck

Jay: huh?

Jay: hello?

Dreams do come true

I find myself in a foreign country for the first time in my life, and 30 is a late age for that to happen. I've only been to Singapore before, but you can scant consider that foreign.

I walk out the entrance of the airport, and I'm not sure what to look for because I don't even know what Thai taxis look like.

"Pai thi nai?"

"Taxi mai, thuuk mak kab."

At least I look local. I get to skip purchasing lucrative gems and 'cheap' tuk-tuk rides.

I'm in Phuket on impulse, wanting to run away from it all. I knew for a fact that if I wasn't happy back home, I'll never be happy anywhere else, but I went ahead and bought the flight tickets anyway. I've always wanted to travel alone, and here I am with my life back home put on hold for a month.

So I'm at the taxi stands trying to look like I belong. All I have is a handwritten address of Sinbi Muay Thai and a phone number of the gym. I walk from one driver to another, my only word of negotiation being 'meter'. This is when I realise that I could find sparkling juice in a desert much easier than finding a taxi to Rawai, maybe because it's an hour's drive, without traffic.

After what seems to be an eternity and a million taxi drivers later, someone finally says yes and we make our way to the gym.

Upon arrival, helplessness starts rearing its ugly head again. I fumble into the gym not knowing what the customs are in gyms of the land of smiles. I swear, insecurity feeds off solitude. Luckily, the people there are friendly enough and checking into my three-person shared room is a breeze. I don't have roommates yet, but Gob the administrator says I can expect company soon.

One bunk bed, one single bed, a sink, and a bathroom. It's like a high end ashram up in here. It's 12:00 now. Class doesn't start till 16:00. Looks like I'll have to get used to being alone with my mind. I don't like the thought of that. I don't even like the thought of being alone with my thoughts. I don't even like the thought of—okay shut up, brain.

I beat the dust off my bed before lying down, hands on my temples while I stare at the ceiling.

What am I doing here? Is this what I really want? Is Muay Thai really my favourite thing? Will I be fine this whole month? Will I get hurt?

Maybe putting my thoughts on paper would help make sense. I rummage through my 30 litre backpack—yes I packed light—and produce a hardcover journal. I turn to the first page and start writing.

Day 1,
I finally did it. I finally made it to Sinbi. But I wonder, what have I signed up for? Is there room for finding myself here?

The weight of these two lines is reflection enough. I stare at the sparsely written page for a good hour, thoughts playing among endless possibilities in my head.

The day passes with physical silence and mental noise, and in the evening I finally hear the whacks of shins on pads. I drag myself to the gym, and by dragging I mean walking ten steps to the ring. I bring my camera for recording, and by camera I mean smartphone.

Training feels like shit, because I'm shit. I realise that my cardio isn't as good as I originally thought. I thought running a 9 minute mile is achievement enough to hang with the big boys. Boy was I wrong. I make a mental note to run everyday if I'm to make the most out of my training here. Like a trainer once told me, Muay Thai is running.

I go back to my room feeling sore and the post-workout endorphins aren't doing anything to help. I pour myself a cup of water and look out the window. Banana trees sway in the gentle breeze as crickets call out for sexy time. At least the view is nice. My calm is short lived.

Water starts dropping on my head. First a drop, then a trickle, then a motherfucking torrent. I look up and realise that the air conditioner is leaking. So I try being MacGyver and fool around with the remote control, as if I could fix it by changing the settings. Half an hour later, I decide to look for Gob.

Well here's the thing. I didn't know the place closes around 19:00 and all employees just straight up leave after that. After realising this misfortune, I mope all the way back to my room. Drops of water thunk against the metal counter, not unlike a Stomp concert. There's a fear in the back of my mind that I'll wake up to a flooded room in the middle of the night. I can't just turn off the air conditioner without being cooked alive, and there's no fan to be found.

I figure there's no choice but to rough it out. Despite my earplugs, the thunk of water drops still ring loud, and I feel like a victim of Chinese water torture. I keep waking up every hour to make sure that no water made its way to the plug points because apparently they don't have on-off switches here. The water continues dripping as if someone forgot to turn off the shower. There's a bunch of towels lined up on the floor—my best attempts at reconstructing Hoover Dam. The night passes slowly.

Thankfully, Gob's there the next morning and she gets it fixed.

The second day of training is much better despite feeling groggier than a medieval alcoholic. The sting of helplessness is slowly fading. The trainers are great and they make you feel at home. The students there are awesome as well. I go back to my room after the day's training and decide to watch the videos I recorded.

As I watch the videos, a realisation comes to my mind. A year back, I was scouring YouTube for videos of people training in Thailand. Back then, I never thought I'd be able to do this. Where would I find the time? What about the money? How can I train with people at such a high level? I'd just click one video after another, just wishing. Wishing like how people wish for a vacation when they watch Travel & Living.

It wasn't until this year that I reviewed my plans with new vigour. Now I'm here, experiencing it for myself. It was all I expected it to be, and more. The musty smell of fermented sweat, the sounds of yells and strikes to wake you up in the morning, the camaraderie among peers, the freedom from expectations, the celebrity trainers and the empowerment that comes with realising your dreams.

I smile. Achieving goals isn't as elusive as people make it out to be—you just need to take it step by step. Believe it or not, that dream you have about being a millionaire or that Euro trip you've been thinking of isn't so far off. No matter how big or small your dreams are, you can make it a reality.

I turn off my smartphone and bask in the joy of the moment. My eyes get heavier as I lie in the comfort of the cool air and silence of the newly serviced air conditioner. Dreams do come true, I think to myself as I float off into dreams of another sort.

I love jamming and not only the music kind

It's a Friday and I'm stuck in traffic. The jam's so massive even six lanes can barely accommodate the flow. A sea of red lights flicker ahead, blinking at the whim of restless motorists' feet. The guy in the car next to me is digging his nose. He catches me staring and casually acts as if he's massaging his temple.

It has been a fun ride so far. I have good company, a cup of coffee, and good music's playing on the radio. We're on home stretch, the last traffic light before we're done with the jam.

"And that's why I think Lovecraft was a fucking racist," says Ann. We have been indulging in geek talk since we got off the highway (which was also backed up mind you), and I was enjoying every moment of it. I haven't engaged in nerd trivia for years now.

"I know right? His work was pretty raci—" before I could complete my sentence, I slam on the brakes, rubber melting against asphalt, to avoid an idiot swerving into my lane without signalling, and he continues across the road in the same manner. I don't sound the horn or flip him the bird like he deserved, and I don't need to, because the other motorists were doing it for me.

"Can you believe this guy?" I say.

"Aww give him a break. Maybe he needs to pee really bad," Ann says.

We go on talking about Michio Kaku, space operas, and how our universe might be a speck of dust in some a giant's closet, and what would happen if that giant one day decided to spring clean. We deduce that time in a universe of that size would pass much slower, so the swipe of the hand might mean a couple of hundred years for us, and that we shouldn't waste our time worrying.

As the light turns green, everyone tries squeezing in for a shot at freedom. Cars are streaming in from all directions, and those who have been lining up are trying their best to prevent queue-cutters an entry. I see a motorist in front unwinding his window and thumping his neighbour's car. It's like the wild west out here.

"Everybody's so worked up," I say. "They should chill, it's the weekend."

"Well who are we to judge? They might have had a shitty day."

"Everyone had a shitty day?"

I look around and chaos reigns in this steel gridlock. Some people are embracing road rage and others look like they could use a vacation. Gold Digger's finger found his way back up his nose.

A car tries to jump the queue, and I let him. For some reason, I don't feel the need to get worked up or 'teach him a lesson'. I was having a great time, and the traffic jam was helping prolong it. I remembered a quote, and it went like this:

The mind in its own place and in itself, can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

I share this with Ann and she laughs.

"I'm loving the jam too," she says.

I remember passing through this road in a similar jam a while back, and if someone tried to cut in, I'd play parallel chicken with them.

"Over my dead body!" I'd scream while I bore through their skull with my eyes.

I'm not necessarily in a bad mood when I do that, I'm just in reacting. People don't like losing out, and when queue-jumpers try to weasel in front of a guy who has been lining up a mile back, egos get bruised and tempers flare.

Assholes will be assholes. Fortunately, you meet more good people than bad, and getting your boxers twisted over the few that you meet just isn't worth it. Would a severed eye or broken nose be better than a broken ego? Unless your well-being is in danger, I don't see the need to pick fights. Well, sometimes.

I take out my notepad and scribble:

Bad situations do not equal bad reactions.

It's a writing idea and a life reminder bunched in one.

Ann sees what I'm doing and bursts out laughing.

"You're such a dork sometimes it's adorable," she says in between breaths.

"Shut up."

"Hey, I got a surprise."

"What is it?"

She reaches in her bag and brings out two cans of beer.

"I'm driving!" I say.

"Well I guess I'll just have to finish them all. I've got two more cans, you know."

I step on the gas and stiff-arm myself into Gold Digger's lane. I shrug at him as I mouth words through the window, hoping he could lip read:

"I need to pee really bad."

We finally make it through the traffic lights and laugh our way out of the most enjoyable traffic jam we've ever had.

Fighting Spirit Gym review and a little shenanigans

It was day two in Bangkok, and I was hungover looking for the gym.

When I arrived the day before, it was Wesak Day, and that meant a ban on the sales of alcohol. Yes, in Thailand, alcohol sales are forbidden on special occasions or during certain hours on other days.

That's when I learned that to white people, the day you can't purchase alcohol is the day to get smashed, and my new acquaintances weren't going to let a little thing like law stop them from drinking. They offered me beers packed in newspapers bought from a seedy little tavern down the street. After a while, the path from the hostel to the tavern became an alcohol trade route, well-travelled by alcoholics walking around with dubious rolls of newspapers in their hands.

And that's how I ended up spending my first night stumbling along the alleys of Patpong with ping-pong-pimps enticing you on the premise of vaginal acrobatics every seven steps. Conmen tend to spare me because I blend in with the locals, but that night I was surrounded by Caucasians so I got more attention than a Rolex in a whorehouse. Tuk-tuk rides, taxi tours, cheap young sex, escorts—I felt like a high-roller even though I was on a shoestring budget.

Fast forward a night of accidentally dropping beer bottles in front of cops and buying more beer to replace said spilt beer; and there I was, hungover and looking for this place called Fighting Spirit Gym which was apparently a five minute walk from the hostel.

As I walked through an empty lot, I noticed slabs of cement around me. I cleared my brain fog just enough to realise that I was in the middle of a cemetery, and sure enough, Fighting Spirit Gym was right in front of a tombstone.

I liked the location. It gave the place a good ambience. I made my way in before this Chihuahua blocked my way. I was probably invading its territory. I would've swiped it aside if not for the owner sitting on a stool further back. He was massive.

World War 2 called. They want their tanks back.

I wasn't aware that brick outhouses were allowed to run gyms.

(Insert more referential thoughts to describe Mr. Huge here)

"I'm just here for a session," I said.

"SURE," he replied. "I'M DAN. JUST GO ON IN AND GET YOURSELF WARMED UP."

Dan was as close to Brock Lesnar as any man will ever be, but he was all smiles. Turns out, he was a pretty chill guy.

I skipped over a pitbull—Dan sure loves his dogs—and made my way into the cage. Five Thai instructors were sitting in the boxing ring, and only one other student was inside. The intimidation was overpowering at this point. Buying contraband booze in a foreign land was nothing compared to this. So I gave my best tough guy impression. I avoided eye contact, held my head down, and twiddled over to the dressing room. That showed them.

I came back out and started skipping rope. Damn Thai ropes are built so heavy I gassed after 10 minutes. The oldest trainer pointed at me as he donned the Thai pads. Was that disappointment I saw in his eyes? No matter, time for pad work, and pad work is always the worst part of training. On top of that, Fighting Spirit Gym does four minutes of pad work instead of the usual three. I prepared myself for projectile vomiting as my trainer and I touched gloves.

In Muay Thai, they train you to look at the chest as opposed to the face. That way, your peripheral view picks up the whole body, and you see punches and kicks better. All I saw was scar tissue that ran from his chest to his belly. Must've had his appendix removed, or he could've had a titanium skeleton implanted. It reminded me of Sagat. Capcom finally did something right. Somehow through all that fatigue, I caught myself wondering what the story was behind that scar.

After my death and resurrection, meaning after five gruelling rounds of pad work, I limped over to the bags to do my own drills as Sagat corrected my technique. This was followed by clinch work with the only other student who had 20 kilos over me. Not fun.

There were students that came in at different times of the day and they still received the full training, which meant that Fighting Spirit Gym had a pretty relaxed approach to training while still maintaining the proper syllabus.

After training, I cooled down and paid Dan for the session.

"THANK YOU SIR," he said, with a voice that sounded like a blend between a sub-woofer and a concussion grenade.

"Thanks for the training." Everything sounded squeakier after Dan spoke.

I gave a final wave to the crew and made my way through the cemetery. I didn't feel so hungover anymore, and I've learned something new to use in future training.

I reached the hostel and Mike and Aiman were already on their second round of beers. A normal occurrence if not for the fact that it was 4 p.m. They noticed the gloves hanging off my backpack and gave me a nod.

"What's up, fighter?" Aiman said. "Here, have a beer."

"I don't know guys, I just recovered from a hangover, and I don't really feel like drinking after training."

...

We drank well into the night, and this time we didn't have to do it illegally.

Just do the best you can

"You just do the best you can for that day, and that is all," said Su. He was the yoga teacher for the session I was in. We were talking about the best way to approach his hot yoga classes other than crying and collapsing from the pain.

"If you see others doing better than you, don't compare. They're different. You're different. Everyday, you challenge yourself. Do better than last time. Do the best you can in that moment," he said.

He made a beautiful point. The part about not comparing yourself struck a chord because I was ruminating that exact thought a couple of weeks back, but 'doing your best for that moment' was a gem.

How often have you put stuff on hold just because you weren't feeling it? How often have you not started on your reports because they were too tedious? How about washing the dishes because you thought you could leave them for tomorrow? Or what about not going to the gym because you were feeling tired?

How different would your life be if you thought to yourself 'I want to do the best I can today'? I, for one, know that if I were to take up that saying sooner, I'd be in a totally different place than I am right now.

People often have a common opinion when observing in retrospect. "If I did X, I'd surely be Y by now." Smokers would rant about how much money they'd have saved if they didn't smoke. Fat people—or at least those who think they're fat—would scoff at the desserts they had accompanying their even larger meal. Procrastinators would wish they worked harder and not read their goal list a year later realising they haven't even got started.

Now I know that dragging your ass to the gym might be the last thing you'd want to do, especially after a commute in the traffic jam sans a long day's work, and I know that quitting smoking might be something that only happens in fairytale land, but that's the point. 

I know all these actions take up all of your energy, and possibly all of what you can afford to put out, but that's why it's so important to give it your best just for that day.

You might think that little cancer stick isn't going to hurt you, or just one more burger isn't going to make you fat, or that lazing the day away is going to be a rare occurrence, but that's the exact thinking process that's going to be your downfall.

Some people even choose to ignore it, justifying that their lunch decisions surely can't be that huge of a decision, and end up making bad decisions that accumulate to a less than ideal bigger picture.

Understandably, this is something hard to do. This is something everyone preaches yet when they think no one's looking, they take the easy way out.

So back at the gym, I made a mental note about this topic and thanked Su. By the time I've prepared and eaten dinner, took a bath, finished some work for the next day, groomed myself and cleaned the room, I was pretty much spent and decided to write this article the day after. But I still had an hour before bedtime, and I could try to write a shitty first draft, or just laze until I slept.

Of course, if I chose the latter, you wouldn't be reading this piece.