As much as we shouldn't, we all know the gist. Boy meets Girl. Girl breaks up with boy. Girl finds Man. Boy hates Man.
Key word: BOY noun
1. a male CHILD, especially one LESS than 18 years of age
2. a young man who lacks MATURITY and JUDGEMENT
BOYS are too immature to accept the fact that she's moved on. BOYS are too stubborn to accept that she's happier with someone else. BOYS are selfish enough to interfere with her new relationship. BOYS are barbaric enough to think that forging violence against her new Man will win Girl back.
According to American Scientist Online – The Lions Mane, male lions will 'jealously guard her and prevent her from mating with his companions'. They even go so far as to kill the offspring of another male – accounting for 25% of all cub deaths. Before you start getting any ideas, let me remind you that we're human. So save your violence for your reincarnation.
If you'd rather her be unhappy and with you, than happy with someone else – was it ever really love in the first place? Even if you succeeded in scaring off her new Man, how could you admit to yourself that she's only with you because you made her? Wouldn't your relationship be more reassuring knowing that she returned to you on her own accord? You wouldn't want someone reigning in on your parade; so in the spirit of Australian mateship, give the other guy a fair go.
And I know it's easier said than done. I've discovered that when you love someone, it's hard to imagine that anyone, even her boyfriend, can love her more than you already do. Remember that it's hard on her part too. No sane person relishes being fought over. She has to live with the guilt that she couldn't please everyone.
And it's in such spirits that I hereby propose a fifth Geneva Convention (noun. a series of international agreements... establishing rules for the humane treatment of prisoners of war and of the sick, the wounded, and the dead in battle). That no physical violence be forged between parties on the grounds of fighting over a girl. It might take two to tango, but it takes three to rumble. Prior to such altercations, both males must have been given a reason to fight, and the incentive of reaping a reward ie. the Girl, who must have led both on.
Sometimes, I think the world would be a better place if there were no such thing as love. But then I think to myself that used the right way, the happiness it brings makes life just that little bit more worth living – and when lost, worth searching for again.
As children we're taught that one girl falls in love with one boy once in their lifetime. Drawing from both personal and indirect experiences, I've learnt that life's not like that, at least not anymore.
Love is a tangled network more messed up than our country's current rail system. People don't just fall in love once anymore, they fall in and out of it, sometimes with the same person, sometimes with more. Like peak hour trains, sometimes they love too late, eventually arriving only to find the other person at someone else's platform. And as much as you want her, you keep from derailing for the sake of your passengers – the friends and family you hurt and drag with you.
Wednesday 28 November 2007
Saturday 24 November 2007
Leave Britney Alone!
Who's your biggest celebrity idol? Jessica Alba? Justin Timberlake?
Now picture them suddenly associated with more scandals in a week than the pairs of undies you go through per year:
Wild parties.
Wardrobe malfunctions.
Drug addictions.
Drunken behaviour.
Nervous breakdowns.
Unexpected pregnancies.
Marriage breakdowns.
Depression.
Weight gain.
Oh, and on top of that, they're now homosexual.
Still their biggest fan? It's funny how human weaknesses most prevalent in western society can alter our perception of public figures. Is that to say, that we only look up to people when they're at their best? Some fair weather fans we are.
But is the aforementioned list any different to what happens to your neighbours, to your friends, to your family members, to your work mates… even to your own self?
Add a shaven head to the equation and you get my biggest celebrity idol: Britney Spears. Over the past few years, it became something like mission impossible to pick up a magazine that didn't splash her across their pages.
Flicking through, I glimpse the trashy pictures and skim the infamous headlines. I see an artist who became a victim of her own success. I am reminded of friends who became mothers and fathers in their teens. I am reminded of my own parent's divorce. And whether or not Britney is really lesbian, I am reminded of my homosexual friends and their constant struggle for respect. I am reminded of my friends who take every opportunity to party hard and drink harder. But most of all, I am reminded that all of these could easily be me.
I believe that every human being is entitled to as many downfalls required for them to make and learn from their own mistakes – even if it's doing them the longest, hardest, most dangerous way possible.
HYPOTHETICALLY, should I ever smoke marijuana throughout my pregnancy and call my child Weed-Girl (even if it's a boy), put on an extra 150 kg yet wear the same size 6/8 clothes, claim to be a witch doctor and start my own cult, try to perform liposuction on myself using a butter knife and vacuum cleaner and shave my head before being admitted into a rehabilitation centre…
In the same way that I anticipate the day Britney Spears comes clean, I'd like to hope that there's at least one blog reader with enough faith in me to know that I'll pull through, and anticipate the blog entry where I can again speak with clarity and wisdom from the traumatic experiences that plagued my troubled years.
Now picture them suddenly associated with more scandals in a week than the pairs of undies you go through per year:
Wild parties.
Wardrobe malfunctions.
Drug addictions.
Drunken behaviour.
Nervous breakdowns.
Unexpected pregnancies.
Marriage breakdowns.
Depression.
Weight gain.
Oh, and on top of that, they're now homosexual.
Still their biggest fan? It's funny how human weaknesses most prevalent in western society can alter our perception of public figures. Is that to say, that we only look up to people when they're at their best? Some fair weather fans we are.
But is the aforementioned list any different to what happens to your neighbours, to your friends, to your family members, to your work mates… even to your own self?
Add a shaven head to the equation and you get my biggest celebrity idol: Britney Spears. Over the past few years, it became something like mission impossible to pick up a magazine that didn't splash her across their pages.
Flicking through, I glimpse the trashy pictures and skim the infamous headlines. I see an artist who became a victim of her own success. I am reminded of friends who became mothers and fathers in their teens. I am reminded of my own parent's divorce. And whether or not Britney is really lesbian, I am reminded of my homosexual friends and their constant struggle for respect. I am reminded of my friends who take every opportunity to party hard and drink harder. But most of all, I am reminded that all of these could easily be me.
I believe that every human being is entitled to as many downfalls required for them to make and learn from their own mistakes – even if it's doing them the longest, hardest, most dangerous way possible.
HYPOTHETICALLY, should I ever smoke marijuana throughout my pregnancy and call my child Weed-Girl (even if it's a boy), put on an extra 150 kg yet wear the same size 6/8 clothes, claim to be a witch doctor and start my own cult, try to perform liposuction on myself using a butter knife and vacuum cleaner and shave my head before being admitted into a rehabilitation centre…
In the same way that I anticipate the day Britney Spears comes clean, I'd like to hope that there's at least one blog reader with enough faith in me to know that I'll pull through, and anticipate the blog entry where I can again speak with clarity and wisdom from the traumatic experiences that plagued my troubled years.
Saturday 3 November 2007
The Silent Requital
ENGLISH EXTENSION
CRIME FICTION - GENRE
It was the worst painting Bryan had ever seen: Pierre Swarofski's impressionist painting of the human heart. He always thought artists were a bit deluded. No wonder the left ventricle was unproportioned.
'For the fraction of you who will graduate, success will come from following your gut instinct. There are some things a good doctor can detect that a good pulse oximeter cannot. And like Swarofski, you too might end up making millions of dollars… or at least save millions of lives' bellowed his favourite professor.
The eager students, few of whom were dedicated to saving lives, and the rest of whom were dedicated to making money, were suddenly beckoned to use the right side of their brain, when it was the left that got them there.
--
'Three operations… aortic coarctation…'
Bryan raved about himself for the same amount of time it took the waitress to take their order, allot her number to a flirting customer and retrieve a bottle of red wine for the newly engaged couple on table nine.
'At least someone's getting married tonight. Hasn't this guy ever heard of open ended questions?' she wondered.
A long pause ensued. She forced a smile before excusing herself to the bathroom. They both knew she wasn't coming back.
--
Ted was Vernfield's most highly acclaimed psychologist. Marriage breakdowns, mid life crises, depression – Ted had seen them all.
'Dr Bryan Kobe'. Ted turned the name over and over in his head, rubbing his cleft chin as he often did when deep in thought. The receding hairline and the slightly hunched back that accentuated his slim build all struck a chord of familiarity.
'Oh yes, that's right!' The newspaper image of Dr Bryan Kobe lurched its way into his memory. The article read something about a new clinical trial. In a follow up story, Ted was certain the baby did not live long. The see-saw-ing of guilt and bliss at losing and saving a patient often took its toll on doctors.
'How can I get a woman to marry me?'
A long pause ensued. He felt like he was on a date again.
'This is Ted's office, right?'
Most clients liked to introduce themselves, talk about their friends, family and pets before delving into why they were there. Taken aback by Bryan's straightforwardness, Ted concluded he was 43, a medical surgeon, and believed himself overdue to start a family. STAT.
--
The Stanbourg University which Bryan attended was absorbed in racist upheaval. Not a day was he spared racial insults. 'Low life Nigger' 'Black Bastard'
'Study now. Revenge later' was his mantra. Peers and lecturers would catch him mumbling incoherently down the hallway, and laugh. He always seemed a social outcast anyway.
Like a star shining against a polluted western sky, Professor Cromblin was proof that the dream of a black man making something respectable out of himself was possible.
In his final year of study, Professor Cromblin was shot dead. Three of Bryan's white peers were charged with murder a week later.
The events above were delivered to Ted methodically and in sparing detail.
--
Ted lay flicking channels, as his wife romped into the bedroom sporting new lace underwear. She began kissing at his neck. He could feel himself go hard.
'Next in breaking news, Hollywood heartthrob Ryan Harppe dies due to a drug overdose. Dr Bryan Kobe said there was little hope by the time he arrived…'
'Hold on honey'
'But-'
'Shh!'
By the end of the report Ted had lost his erection. Patients died all the time, but this was the second headline in the past month featuring the death of one of Dr Bryan Kobe's patients. Ted started rubbing his cleft chin.
--
Bryan met with Ted for their usual 5:00 Friday appointment. The real Bryan came out on their last session.
'So, tell me about your childhood'
'CHILDHOOD? I'm paying you good money to help me find a wife, not talk about my bloody childhood. Any bet you're just out to pump money out of me. Typical white bastard. You're all the same. BETTER OFF DEAD, I SAY!' shouted Bryan vexedly and stormed out.
Finding a wife became the least of his problems, Ted made note to help Bryan through his racial issues. But something about the way he said 'BETTER OFF DEAD!' unsettled Ted. The words clung to him like a foul stench.
In his hurried exit, Bryan left his folder behind. Picking it up, Bryan's Stanbourg Yearbook fell onto the floor. Flipping quickly through the black and white pages, hints of red caught Ted's eye. Fingering back through the pages, Ted found that Bryan had violently crossed the faces of three individuals. He started rubbing his cleft chin.
--
'Thank God it's Friday'
Bryan had one more operation to perform. He skimmed the patient profile: John O'Timmons. 64. Caucasian. Fatal condition. Requires cardiomyopathy.
'Perfect, easy as pi' chuckled Bryan to himself. He made note to share the pun on his next date. After all, Ted said that women were attracted to humour.
Within minutes John O'Timmons was declared dead. In theory his body had rejected the donated heart. But in practice Bryan had left a 3mm gap in reconnecting the aorta.
Revenge is a dish best served cold, and under the façade of a good willed doctor, Bryan was a cold blooded murderer.
Every white patient that died on his operating table resembled someone who called him a 'Low Life Nigger' a 'Black Bastard', or someone who murdered Professor Cromblin. Only the black patients died from genuine medical conditions.
'Shit' Bryan almost forgot his appointment with Ted, as he reached his pocket for the car keys.
'DR KOBE! EMERGENCY!' From the rear view mirror, Bryan could see one of the interns running short breathed after him.
--
Ted suffered a stroke while at work. He could not move, but could see and hear everything around him. The secretary. The ambulance. The hospital. The nurse. The Doctor.
'Not to worry Ted, it's me, Dr Bryan Kobe'. As the morphine kicked in, Bryan's wink was anything but reassuring. ©
CRIME FICTION - GENRE
It was the worst painting Bryan had ever seen: Pierre Swarofski's impressionist painting of the human heart. He always thought artists were a bit deluded. No wonder the left ventricle was unproportioned.
'For the fraction of you who will graduate, success will come from following your gut instinct. There are some things a good doctor can detect that a good pulse oximeter cannot. And like Swarofski, you too might end up making millions of dollars… or at least save millions of lives' bellowed his favourite professor.
The eager students, few of whom were dedicated to saving lives, and the rest of whom were dedicated to making money, were suddenly beckoned to use the right side of their brain, when it was the left that got them there.
--
'Three operations… aortic coarctation…'
Bryan raved about himself for the same amount of time it took the waitress to take their order, allot her number to a flirting customer and retrieve a bottle of red wine for the newly engaged couple on table nine.
'At least someone's getting married tonight. Hasn't this guy ever heard of open ended questions?' she wondered.
A long pause ensued. She forced a smile before excusing herself to the bathroom. They both knew she wasn't coming back.
--
Ted was Vernfield's most highly acclaimed psychologist. Marriage breakdowns, mid life crises, depression – Ted had seen them all.
'Dr Bryan Kobe'. Ted turned the name over and over in his head, rubbing his cleft chin as he often did when deep in thought. The receding hairline and the slightly hunched back that accentuated his slim build all struck a chord of familiarity.
'Oh yes, that's right!' The newspaper image of Dr Bryan Kobe lurched its way into his memory. The article read something about a new clinical trial. In a follow up story, Ted was certain the baby did not live long. The see-saw-ing of guilt and bliss at losing and saving a patient often took its toll on doctors.
'How can I get a woman to marry me?'
A long pause ensued. He felt like he was on a date again.
'This is Ted's office, right?'
Most clients liked to introduce themselves, talk about their friends, family and pets before delving into why they were there. Taken aback by Bryan's straightforwardness, Ted concluded he was 43, a medical surgeon, and believed himself overdue to start a family. STAT.
--
The Stanbourg University which Bryan attended was absorbed in racist upheaval. Not a day was he spared racial insults. 'Low life Nigger' 'Black Bastard'
'Study now. Revenge later' was his mantra. Peers and lecturers would catch him mumbling incoherently down the hallway, and laugh. He always seemed a social outcast anyway.
Like a star shining against a polluted western sky, Professor Cromblin was proof that the dream of a black man making something respectable out of himself was possible.
In his final year of study, Professor Cromblin was shot dead. Three of Bryan's white peers were charged with murder a week later.
The events above were delivered to Ted methodically and in sparing detail.
--
Ted lay flicking channels, as his wife romped into the bedroom sporting new lace underwear. She began kissing at his neck. He could feel himself go hard.
'Next in breaking news, Hollywood heartthrob Ryan Harppe dies due to a drug overdose. Dr Bryan Kobe said there was little hope by the time he arrived…'
'Hold on honey'
'But-'
'Shh!'
By the end of the report Ted had lost his erection. Patients died all the time, but this was the second headline in the past month featuring the death of one of Dr Bryan Kobe's patients. Ted started rubbing his cleft chin.
--
Bryan met with Ted for their usual 5:00 Friday appointment. The real Bryan came out on their last session.
'So, tell me about your childhood'
'CHILDHOOD? I'm paying you good money to help me find a wife, not talk about my bloody childhood. Any bet you're just out to pump money out of me. Typical white bastard. You're all the same. BETTER OFF DEAD, I SAY!' shouted Bryan vexedly and stormed out.
Finding a wife became the least of his problems, Ted made note to help Bryan through his racial issues. But something about the way he said 'BETTER OFF DEAD!' unsettled Ted. The words clung to him like a foul stench.
In his hurried exit, Bryan left his folder behind. Picking it up, Bryan's Stanbourg Yearbook fell onto the floor. Flipping quickly through the black and white pages, hints of red caught Ted's eye. Fingering back through the pages, Ted found that Bryan had violently crossed the faces of three individuals. He started rubbing his cleft chin.
--
'Thank God it's Friday'
Bryan had one more operation to perform. He skimmed the patient profile: John O'Timmons. 64. Caucasian. Fatal condition. Requires cardiomyopathy.
'Perfect, easy as pi' chuckled Bryan to himself. He made note to share the pun on his next date. After all, Ted said that women were attracted to humour.
Within minutes John O'Timmons was declared dead. In theory his body had rejected the donated heart. But in practice Bryan had left a 3mm gap in reconnecting the aorta.
Revenge is a dish best served cold, and under the façade of a good willed doctor, Bryan was a cold blooded murderer.
Every white patient that died on his operating table resembled someone who called him a 'Low Life Nigger' a 'Black Bastard', or someone who murdered Professor Cromblin. Only the black patients died from genuine medical conditions.
'Shit' Bryan almost forgot his appointment with Ted, as he reached his pocket for the car keys.
'DR KOBE! EMERGENCY!' From the rear view mirror, Bryan could see one of the interns running short breathed after him.
--
Ted suffered a stroke while at work. He could not move, but could see and hear everything around him. The secretary. The ambulance. The hospital. The nurse. The Doctor.
'Not to worry Ted, it's me, Dr Bryan Kobe'. As the morphine kicked in, Bryan's wink was anything but reassuring. ©
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