A guy can’t just be friends with a girl without thinking about what it’d be like to be with her at least once.

It’s true.  I maintain some pretty platonic relationships with members of the opposite sex, but the problem is, a good chunk of that pie is made up of girls that I’d previously gone out with in some capacity or another.

I’m trying to rewire myself to act in a capacity of a girl’s BFF, and not just oblige her for the sake of me having hidden notions.

And it’s a good thing.  Because I get to become that emotional base that all girls need, without the physical payoff and the hassle.  Which is good, because karma dictates that if I up my sincerity, I’ll probably get a reward for being such a nice guy, and not a douche.

Karma.  You bitch.

But yes.  I should only be so lucky to hang out with some of the most gorgeous women the country has to offer [okay, that's a half-lie]…but knowing that it should rightfully lead up to me meeting the most gorgeous of the lot makes it all the more worthwhile.

[Okay, that's not true, but I'm trying to imbue myself with the patience of a monk.]

Some come, some go, some stay.  Boys and girls alike hate to be lonely.  But it doesn’t mean that hooking up is the answer.

[It probably is.  I do know better.]

I should see this BFF thing out.  It makes me feel good to make someone else feel good without having to try too hard.

I guess honesty really is a good policy once in a while.

This cat was planted in our extra room on the third floor for what must’ve been a few nights.  We’d found cat droppings in two of the rooms upstairs, and assumed that she must’ve somehow magically come in through the window and left the same way.  It didn’t help that we’d shut the windows, hoping for her not to get in, when she was already [hidden] inside.

There’s also the slight possibility that she was pregnant, although she might’ve just been fat.

Anyway.  The clincher?  After an hour of trying to talk to her and stroking her with a backscratcher (which she didn’t like, the ungrateful cow), and getting the hissy fitt and claw treatment, I asked my stepmother for help.  With a mop in hand, we coaxed the finicky feline out the window.

She’ll be back.  And we’ll be ready.

Strangely enough, this would probably never have happened if I’d done a proper perimeter sweep of the top floor rooms that first night we suspected something was amiss.  It goes to show you that you can never be too cautious — if you feel that you are, it’s only because the nooks and crannies are too small for you to look into.

Damn cats.

Despite my apprehension when it comes to embracing all things digital (life seems to pass us by at a lightning bolt’s place these days), and my own admission of being more comfortable as a luddite than learning about the Second Renaissance of the Fiber Optic Age, it’s heartening to know that everybody’s striving to make our world smaller.  However, for every Goodwill Ambassador who endeavours to make life worth living for Netizens, you get at least a hundredfold of people who want to use the Internet for blatant self-promotion.

Like me.  The only exception is, I can’t do it, because I lack the |33t skillz needed to shamelessly plaster my mugshot on your browser.

I’m still trying to build up a small audience who’s willing to bear witness to my bouts of random insanity…random insanity that everyone takes the wrong way.

It makes me ask: is there something genuinely wrong with the way my mind works?  I suppose that it was tolerable when I was, let’s say, fifteen, but currently I’m a 27 year old who’s reached the pinnacle of his Peter Pan complex (although I’m doing it with a good amount of wit, wisdom and panache).  It’s difficult being a swashbuckling buccaneer when all I really want to do is to have my dog on my lap, a large bowl of salty popcorn within my arm’s reach with my focus on the PlayStation.

I managed to scrape through a Quarter-Life crisis (a.k.a “What do the fuck do I do with myself?“), and I’ve somehow accumulated enough points to visit the glorious shores of the Identity Crisis (a.k.a “Who the fuck am I?“).  Most of my friends have started to realize that there’s some strange inner toddler lurking, who’s rearing more and more of his head in the open.  I think the filters, muzzles, chains, leashes, restraints and hairpieces are gradually reaching a breaking point — in due time, I’m going to turn into a non-stop gargantuan juggernaut of limitless idiosyncratic energy.

And it’s all based around that one question: who am I?  Who am I, really?

I was having a talk about it the other day with a sounding board, and I was relating my own inabilities to live up to what people perceive Brand Tai to be: the happy, jolly, loud monolith man who dominates every conversation with a girlish, high pitched exclamation.  Brand Tai is a guy who rustles the bushes, sets your pants on fire, fights your mother, thinks he’s smarter than the next guy and blackmails your cousin for sordid sexual favours.  Brand Tai is the antagonist — Brand Tai is someone who drives you up the wall.  Brand Tai is the guy who makes you happy that you’re such a good person.

Yet, likewise, despite this strange, eccentric homage to all things good and quirky, all I really am is a caring guy with a heart of gold who just wants to play video games and fuck occasionally (and I do handle the task with much aplomb and splendour).  Admit it: you want to do that, too.

Our own struggle through life is supposed to define us.  We’re supposed to be molded and hardened against the harsh realities of life, and, to an extent, we are.  But whatever is at the core of the essence of our inner beings risks being compromised by the idiots and buffoons around us, who make it a point to drive us to desperation to make things “better” for ourselves.  We’re conditioned to be conditioned.  Hence, our obsessiveness with being popular and accepted overwhelms our own ability to clearly define what makes us us.

I have no desire to be part of the pack, yet this desire also makes me part of the pack.  I do things that are expected of me, because I know my actions bring some sort of perverse joy to be people that I affect.  Do they bring joy to me?  I’m not so sure.

Look, some of you are more than secure with the knowledge that you are who you are.  Good for you, godspeed, may you be on your way.  I still have a niggling doubt that something bigger has to happen to me before I can settle down on being what I’m meant to be.  And how can you be satisfied with what you are, anyway?  Some may claim to be content with being competent, but there’s always a struggle for more, isn’t there?

Isn’t that what we’re here for?  To struggle to find out where we should be, and not be content with where we are?

I don’t quite know anymore.  Everyone around me seems quite cushed up in their rounds already.  It’s as if stability is the new uncontrollable dosage of static that off-focus television sets give.

Who am I?  I don’t quite know anymore.  It’s not really exciting as much as it is intriguing.

You can be whoever you want to be — you can be whoever you want to be.

I’m muddled, and confused, and the only person who can guide me is me.  I am the guru in the mountain in my mind.  I am a sage who transcends wisdom.  I just have to find that inner monkish side of me, first.  I suppose I have to be the zen that lights my own path.  I can’t rely on anyone to show me.

Or can I?

I’ve been accumulating a good deal of facial scruff on my mug, and I’m proud to say that this might possibly be the longest that I’ve ever gone unshaven.  It’s a monumental accomplishment for an underachiever like myself — I’ve broken a record of my own that I’d previously set (things feel a lot better that way).

Like facial hair, there’re certain things that you want to keep around, even though you know that doing so would only make others question your judgment and good taste.

For example: a woman.

I’m not being misogynistic, and I frequently remind most of my friends that I’m not sexist, because I really like sex.  It’s just that there’re certain women that just aren’t right for your friends.  And, more importantly, their friends.  All women tend to bite into the bromance aspect of a heterosexual relationship shared between a group of men — it’s very underhanded, even if it’s unintentional.

If a woman refuses to give in and budge, why should a man have to be pussywhipped into doing the same thing?  Why can’t he hang out with the guys to slay zombies once in a while?  Or to grab a pint (or five)?  Or to watch the big game?  Or hang out and play laser tag?  And have an UT3 Deatchmatch Night once a month?

These days, guys are allowing their women to disband the Band of Brothers.  It’s very dangerous behaviour, especially when she leaves you on the altar, crying like a little bitch.  Granted, there is one thing a woman can do for a man that his friends can’t, and, again, granted, it’s a very good thing.

But it shouldn’t be used as a carrot on a stick.  Nay.  A man’s stick should show resilience through a time of hardship, and be a ship of calm in story seas.

However, your love is yours, and yours alone, and so, as repugnant as it is, you have every right to keep it.  Just like how I can keep my scruff.

So leave me alone about it.  You tossers.

This is Saiful Bukhari Azlan.  You have to admit, he’s quite a good-looking guy, complete with fair(ish) skin and sharp features.  He claims to have been buttfucked (albeit, politely) by Anwar Ibrahim, Malaysia’s de facto Opposition leader.

This is Anwar Ibrahim.  He’s been charged (again) for sodomy, which could threaten to end his political career (again), and he’s arguably getting the short end of the stick (in more ways than one…again).  He’s not a spring chicken, but look at that face: you can’t help but be enthralled by its strength.

I belong to the unique camp of people who believe that Anwar is possibly a bit limp-wristed.  But in a “I’m-going-to-gag-you-and-whip-you-endlessly-while-you-moan-and-groan-in-pain” kind of way.

I also belong to the very unique camp of people who believe that being (allegedly) hit on by Anwar is an absolutely compliment.

Anwar wanting to ram his meat into your bum is akin to being bestowed a halo by the Almighty.  Or being knighted by the Queen.  Or winning a year’s supply of Krispy Kremes.  It’s a once in a lifetime experience that you can tell all your friends about…or at least the taxi driver who’s spiriting you away from the scene of the crime.

Now, I’m not saying that Saiful is a liar, and is doing a Dick Dastardly because the Powers-That-Be in the Federal Government have given him a blank cheque to go AWOL.

Nay!

I’m saying that, if he’s telling the truth, he’s had the privilege and the opportunity to see things from the other side of the tunnel.

And despite all his bamboozling, Saiful could’ve just said no, right?

But, honestly, wouldn’t you want to be fucked by Anwar Ibrahim?

It’s kind of hot.

If the government’s already showing its strong willingness to appeal against the ‘Allah’ ruling, why does it even bother to drag out the legal proceedings?

Can’t it just wipe it out like everything else that doesn’t strike its fancy?

It’s like everyone else is a zionist overlord. This vibe of distrust and intolerance really shouldn’t be fostered any longer. 1 Malaysia is a sham.

Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah Allah!

It’s been a whole month and a half since I last said anything on this jolly little diary of mine.  The occasional tweet doesn’t really count, because, let’s face it, I didn’t pay money for the server space and the URL for the world at large to enjoy a 140 character rant.

No, really, it might seem that way, but I didn’t.

This year is promising to festoon into something monstrous; work is going to find me spread out to the four corners of Malaysia, while things couldn’t be better at home — I’ve forged a deep connection with Uno, due to her increasing dependence on me through this period of sabbatical that my folks have enjoyed.

Okay, that sounds very formal, but I’m trying to toughen up for the New Year.

Among the resolutions I’ve made to myself (that will very likely be broken):

1. Eat less, and get fit in time for Iron Man 2 (which is in May),
2. Spend less, due to the sudden reactivation of my unit trust fund (that’s RM 600 a month!)
3. Quit smoking, or at least leach off another fellow smoker (it works better)

It’s just three resolutions, and it can be said that none of them will be fulfilled by 2011.

Onwards!

have you ever been in love with a lesbian?

[i know i have.]

are 10% of the world’s women really gay?  stephan thinks so…as he sings about wanting to turn his “1 in 10″ over to the dark side. [btw, the version on the album has a snazzy brass section.]

I need more twits.  I’m just playing around with the idea that social media can score me a date.  I’ve got all the tools I need, really.  A combustible Facebook account, a Twitter account, as well as my own fricking website.

It’s really just a matter of sorting through the chaos to implement a campaign of minimalist proportions…just to learn from it, and to implement it at work [if the need should ever arise].

The objective is to score one date with one girl whom I’ve never met in my life prior to…well, the call-up.

Nothing has to come out of it, really.

And, by right, it shouldn’t be that hard to achieve.

I’m bound to fail, but you can get me @iantai.  Since I don’t really tweet, this is bound to be disastrous!