Ok, here's the thing. I didn't like the people who were reading this blog before, so I went postal and deleted the original address.
That and, I had a bit too much beer, and it was much too embaressing afterwards to apologise to eveyrone involved, so I just let it be.
It's been 3 months since I left my last job as a copywriter, and I still haven't gotten around to writing my CV or applying for a new job yet.
I did do a brief spell as a bookseller at a major bookstore but I left because ... well... I'm not too sure why I left.
Because I don't have a steady income, I now only get to log in for about an hour a day. That's where this blog comes in. Otherwise, I'm pretty much incontactable.
First, some updates. Bike Stuff.
I hit my target for this year on the 1st December. 6000 kilometers, bay-beh! Give me a kiss!
And as of yesterday, I'm closer to 7000km than 6000. Go me.
I also bought a new pump (the day after I got it, I got my first ever flat in the hills. Go figure.)
A new stem (to correct my overly aggressive riding position. Now my elbow feels a lot better, and the fork is better activated under load.) But I had to put on bar ends so that I can put my weight over the front when climbing steep inclines.
I also got a new seat and a crud-catcher mud guard.
My So-Called Life
What with all this free time and riding, my weight has really come down a bit. I've lost a whole Moose-stang in weight.
Now, I don't really know what I want to do with my life. But I'm getting an increasingly strong indication. I've been writing. My first novel.
This is where I write. Distraction-Central:
I even rigged up a cool-looking night light so that I can work in darkness.
And my uncle gave me his old scanner, so that I can scan whatever I've typed into the computer and edit it from there. What are the odds? The typewriter itself is also a hand-me down, from ages past. Read here for what I wrote about it in 1998.
It doesn't work well at all for scanning pictures, there's all sorts of nasty noise across the scanned image. But I got it to work just fine for Optical Character Recognition.
Results here. Compare it with the actual text.
“Trr . 6
a celebiaed artist, being cheered as he rode his envirwiit!1y— frieddl2 bicycle to work at his lavishly appointed artist’s studio, People rtiled and waved. Privers kiew kisses at him adoringly through their windshields and pressed their lips against tneir uindows as he rode past, while pedestrians tried to give hi cney as he rolled past them at the kerbside,
Traffic lights turned green before he had time to pull’ori the brakes, and buses careened wildly into adjacent lanes to give him a ide berth, ,hile motorcyclists ftahhed him the victory sian as they zoomed tast.
The tralfic police, too, had gotten wind of his aardwinning commute and shoed up now with a b—strong motorcade escort, and
arrived at his studio, he was greeted by the dozzle of flashing paparazzi, deafened by cooing spectators and immensely turned on by a troupe of sexy cheerleaders “ho annovnced his arrival with a cheer that ended with a pyramid formation.
pow. What was for lunch’
Ike’s actual studio was located atop hi father’s prcvi&ior store in the UDE heartlancls. A single studio—style apartment, there was an artist’s orktable basking in the light of the noontime sun. The sun slanted across his drawing hoard and split into Dainbows whereever they chanced unon {nkpot, still clayed over frorr orevic Outings.
Above the drawing board sat a lamp suspended artistical.L
sveral red threads hanging from the ceiling. Ike had put in sce effort into its construction so that the effect resernLlf! thst of a suspended bridge. Pinned to the lamp at iust bove ey—lewL weer the iords: Don’t Ever Give Up.
Ihe rest of the studio was eual1y spare. The single r6iim onened up to a small kitbhentte, where a light cornflower blue art—deco— style trid e hulked in one corner. A squece table accoutoured the fridge wit a small glass fiehhciwl on it, inside of whiC! wam a single, solitary guppie.
Tis was the starving artist’s aven. Nothing but work aid te to worry about.
L4
Ike had the cheeriness of one who rarely paused for thought, preferring to simply make it up as he went along. He carried alone with him, wherever he went, an aura that was so palpable, t had its own personality, often taking off by itself for lone wIk on the beach, visit art galleries, or stealing away to shate intimate smoking breaks with the wind.
In short, he was a dreamer, and in these times and ages, and especially in Singapore, times were hard for dreamers.
Lunch consisted of a simple peanut and butter sandwich.
And then it was back to the drawing beard for an afternoon of his real woi’z.
Lrawing ‘stories’. Job—hunting wasn’t easy, but he was Vin n with the practiced ease borne from being an old—hand at it rnean— while, he had bigger fish to fry.
4hI
I am betting that I'm just odd enough to survive, and just eccentric enough to become really really rich.
Yes, this is what I want to do for a living.
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