The Dating Games

This picture pretty much captures my attitude towards dating

This is my first real foray into dating and I’m actually having a lot of fun despite not knowing any rules of the game. Before I go any further, my ego is demanding I mention how touching and inspiring it is to see myself putting myself out there again; to get loved or to get burned by love; and to get my heart undoubtedly smashed by the beauty and terror of dating. Side note: I’d say I’m pretty self-aware and do this often – step out of my own body and watch myself going through the motions as an impartial spectator – don’t look at me that way, it’s not weird at all. It’s exactly what you need to grow out of the paradox of insecurities and arrogance that define youth.

Up until 6 weeks ago, I was in denial about the demise of my relationship. I will admit. I wrote about “waiting” and “trusting your gut” and “crossing your fingers” and “hoping for the best” because honestly, when your buoyfriend leaves you to drown in a pool of desperation, what else can you do? I mean, aside from taking one too many tequila shots and spamming one’s now-exboyfriend’s inbox with psychotic and pleading emails, of course.

He broke up with me because he “didn’t want to be in a relationship”. Seriously, babes? Sometimes, we have to open our discerning eyes and read between the lines. It’s the sole reason we study Literature in high school. He didn’t want to be in a relationship, maybe true; but more specifically and more importantly, he didn’t want to be in a relationship  – here comes the punchline  – with me. Fair enough, but this is a hard-hitting fact to accept. Especially when you know that you’re the best person ever and why doesn’t he realize that? But once the crying is done, organize that messy bleeding heart, jump back on the high horse and wreak havoc. The only way forward is to be reconciled with the past and pursue personal growth (and men with ridiculously chiseled bods) with vigilant optimism, amirite?

Going on dates is both thrilling and stress inducing – mostly stress inducing. What I have to constantly remind myself, in order to Keep Calm and Date On, is that a date isn’t a performance, a competition or an audition for a role; it’s merely a means of getting to know somebody. Nobody should be trying to make a statement or meet some arbitrary standards to prove themselves worthy of a second date, of sex, of a relationship; we’re all in the same boat, just trying to form a meaningful connection with another fellow human being.

And just FYI, if you get invited out or if, heaven forbid, you should ask someone out and they say “yes”, half the battle has already been won. People – gonna make a sweeping statement now, but generally – don’t go on dates with people they don’t like. In fact, it’s quite the opposite; people go out with people they are interested in and want to get to know. Now comes the groundbreaking revelation: your date wants everything to go well just as badly as you do. So don’t worry about that stupid piece of salami that was supposed to go gracefully into your mouth but ended up falling into your lap. You are still the cool, witty, charming person they’ve been hoping to meet. And honestly, you’re both hoping for the same thing. As the saying goes, may the odds be ever in your favor.

List This

I’ve recently taken to making lists. Of everything. Top 5 favourite looks this season, top 5 favorite fashion designers (I mean, duh… Fashion is everything), top 5 favourite food, top 5 favourite songs (for the hour), top 5 favourite paintings, top 5 favourite women, top 5 favourite cultures, top 5 favourite animals … It goes on. Of course, the items listed are subject to change, and change pretty often and in contradictory ways at that. But I’ve found lists useful for these reasons: 

• Purpose of identity

We live in a time where our senses are constantly bombarded with new information. It’s become quite a challenge for me to make sense of and effectively filter these new influences that are coming into my life 24/7 via the Internet (biggest offender), books, movies, billboards, and people. Narrowing down, or at least writing down my personal likes/dislikes/beliefs/whatever helps me to remember who I am at the core of it all, as I dabble in the sea of information at such an impressionable age.

As much as we want to know it all and be a part of everything, a person has only so much time and energy. The harsh reality is that we only get 5 GB of free storage on iCloud and not everyone can afford to upgrade to a larger storage plan.

• Organize yo self before you wreck yo self

If we’ve hung out before, I probably pissed you off by arriving 0.5-2 hours after our agreed meet up time and then proceeded to confuse you with my conversation style, which is haphazard, sarcastic and mostly incoherent. The only people I seem to get along with really well are those who are able to switch their brains off and cast some logic aside to just enjoy the ride.

My thoughts are scattered all over the place so the less I say is better, and sometimes, when I really want to impress someone, I don’t say a thing. To date, I’ve never actually successfully impressed anyone by pretending to be a mute, so I try to do this thing where I murmur some words or phrases and don’t elaborate further. “Bitter gourd.” “Corduroy originated from the French.” “Square watermelons easier to stack.” “Calculator.”

At worst, people think I’m aloof. At best, people think I’m mysterious. Which are perfect adjectives to be labeled when you’re a teenager, striving to be anything but normal and mediocre (read: boring), but not exactly the kind of words you’d want to be associated with when you’re an adult and your life goal has shifted from getting a boyfriend to getting a job.

• Better gifts from your boyfriend. And everyone else

My boyfriend has a superb memory and commendable attention to details. I’m not even joking when I say that he can repeat our conversations from 4 years ago without a blink. It’s creepy and amusing. But mostly heartwarming when someone remembers what you were wearing the first time you guys went out to watch a movie together, or when someone picks up on the “I’m so hungry” that you whined casually and unthinkingly and then appears in your office lobby with your favorite sushi 20 minutes later.

I’ve never dog-eared pages or circled handbags in catalogs before placing them strategically on my bedside table, specifically because I don’t have a bedside table and also find this method to be a bit rude and direct. But news flash, we aren’t the center of the universe and the sun definitely doesn’t shine out of our arses. (Ikr? Relax. Calm down... It took me about 5 weeks to come to terms with this.) Not everyone is going to remember that we adore anything floral print, collect pretty rocks, LOVE (like, seriously, L.O.V.E.) Jean-Baptiste Maunier or even notice that we do yoga 6 days a week.

Sometimes amid the frenzy and chaos that comes with buying gifts for others, particularly around the season of Christmas, a simple list of your “Top 5 favourite things” could go a long way in saving all parties involved some money and disappointment. 

Lists aren’t limited to your ‘top 5 favourite whatever’, but that’s a good start if you’re at a lost as to how to go about creating your list. I’ve got lists entitled “People I wish I could punch in the face”, “The Pros and Cons of dating a person of a different race”, “Smells I like”, and the ever so common “Groceries to buy” and “To do”.

Some are more interesting than others. “All the boys I’ve ever kissed”, was one I started at the age of 16 after I’d just suffered the greatest heartbreak of our time. I was going through a self-destructive phase with my new hobby of getting tipsy and kissing boys and was beginning to lose track of whom I’d locked lips (and hips. Ha ha ha. Jk) with.

“Evidence that my brothers love me” is a strange list to have, but my brothers did hava a weird way of showing me their affection that consisted largely of physical torture and verbal taunting. This raised genuine concerns and doubts within me if the rumor about our parents decision to name me Justine in honor of the fact that they'd found me in the dustbin was indeed true.

Another notable list is “Daily food log”, which was a Word document that I’d updated faithfully over a period of two years in my late teens. It’s long and detailed, and I’m embarrassed to admit that it’s the most committed I’ve ever been to anything. Although I haven’t managed to completely shake off the habit of counting my calories till today, the obsession is gone (haha. I think) and more importantly, the list no longer has the power to make me feel bad about myself.

New list: “Memories of losing it while losing weight”

1. Freaking out and being completely distraught and consumed with guilt and self-depreciating thoughts whenever my daily caloric intake creeped into the thousands – which is totally normal, FYI. 
2. Imagining the olive oil (extra virgin, of course) from my salad collecting in a crater (huh?) of my stomach and then conjugating into the awful jelly substance, cellulite. The inspiration for this phenomenon came about after I’d observed a cloudy top layer of oil had solidified in a pot of chicken soup after sitting overnight in our refrigerator.
3. Shuddering at the thought of touching butter, believing that it would seep through the pores on my fingers. God knows how many calories that’d be. And for what?! I wouldn’t even get to taste it.
4. Getting into fights with my mom at our dinner table on a daily basis, whenever she tried to force anything that wasn’t raw lettuce down my throat. Have you seen a Chinese mom’s cooking? Sesame oil, soy sauce, gooey brown gravy, a bunch of other weird stuff. I’d interrogate her with questions like “how many teaspoons of sugar did you use?” and “was it refined sugar or raw sugar?” It truly was a dark and perplexing time when sugar scared me more than lizards.

New list: “Retrospective analysis of having an odd diet”

1. I did not study biology. Obviously. Or nutritional science, for that matter. But for some reason saw myself fit to make the inaccurate assumption that a bowl of lettuce tossed in olive oil and balsamic vinegar was a nutritious enough meal and that 1.5 tablespoons of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey would cost me 200 kcal.
2. My imagination is twisted and I’ve a long history of using it unproductively to my disadvantage.
3. Nobody wants to bone someone who looks like an undernourished child from the third world.
4. I won't die from some pasta and cupcake frosting. Fried carrot cake from the hawker center is actually really delicious. Who would’ve guessed?

Life is uncertain and people are complicated. Listing priorities/beliefs/likes/dislikes/pros/cons may not be the most dynamic representation of an individual or a situation, but it’s a good indication and provides a useful overview of what to expect. Go forth and make lists because simplifying things never harmed nobody and is actually super handy at times.

We Got Dis

I wrote this as a kind of affirmation for myself that I have at least 5 things going for me at the moment and to convince myself that all the resources I need to advance in the game of life over the next few years, I already have.

“Things in my life that could change my life”

Passion

“Follow your heart”; “find a fulfilling career” and “do what you love and you’ll never have to work a day” are relatively new ideas that have only really gotten going in the last couple of decades. Having economic prosperity by way of a satisfying career had never held any importance to preceding generations, but still, these catchy slogans and delusional expectations of the future have somehow found their way into the fabric of our (young people’s) lives today and constantly pop up in the millennial manifesto.

As a person born in the early ‘90s, my subscription to these beliefs during my childhood happened by default. On top of that, having been subjected to brainwashing throughout adolescence, I find myself studying my reflection in the mirror at age 21 years and 5 months old, thinking that I am special and believing that I am an outlier. Completely oblivious to the fact that everyone else had been exposed to those same sacred messages from the media, I admit a sense of higher purpose, a desire to remake the world, to create my own laws, and live by my own principles.

But what exactly happens when these concepts are applied outside of a chick flick?

Figuring out what you enjoy doing and then finding a way to get paid doing it is tricky business. Many people – myself included – sit around convinced that if only they could turn their yoga hobby into a fulltime job, they’d finally be happy. When in reality, doing an activity all day long and depending on it for survival could suck the playfulness and enjoyment out of it.

I don’t want to sound like a brat, though that may be unavoidable. Ultimately, I think that if the option to “earn a living doing what you love” is available to you without too much force or an exorbitant cost, go for it. Because you’ll be doing it for at least 8 hours a day for at least 5 days a week – considering that the economic model of retiring at 55 with a pension is gone and the likelihood of inventing something Facebook may want to buy is slim – for at least the rest of your life.

Talent

Are we born or are we made? Things like piano, ballet and Math may come much more naturally to some as compared to others, but it’s a common misconception that talent is innate and comes solely from within the individual. This observation only explains the variance in talents. For a large part, talent needs to be nurtured over time and can be influenced by a myriad of external factors ranging from societal, cultural and economic, to name a few.

So take comfort in knowing that if you’re not completely retarded at it, it’s only matter of X hours before you become an expert at it. *X = 10,000 hours of practice – number of hours you’ve put in to date (Malcolm Gladwell)

Education

With tuition fees getting more painful to afford, a growing number of people with degrees they don’t need for their job, even more people taking up positions unrelated to their major, and the evolving landscape of our global economy, the necessity of a degree to be successful today is questionable. To be totally clear, a degree from a distinguished university is always good to have under your belt. Skipping university (or dropping out) may have worked out for Mark Zuckerberg and Bill Gates, but it’s definitely not for everyone.

Some industries require a bachelor’s at minimum, period.

If I’m looking to get my car fixed, I’m just as inclined to get in touch with the guy who’s been working on cars his entire life with his dad as I am with the guy who paid for an education. If I’m looking to get my body worked on, whoa… Hold up, that’s a whole new ballgame.

• If you’re interested in becoming a lawyer, a job in the STEM field or any other academically-focused trade, the no-degree route isn’t for you. Sorry.
• Many creative jobs will look for a level of training, but if you can produce something cool, somebody will be impressed and want to hire you. And if you know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody, somebody will also hire you.
• Blue-collar work is another sector where formal education is often forgone in favor of on-the-job training or apprenticeship programs. If your life’s goal is to be the best electrician you can be, chances are that taking out loans and pledging 4 (or more) years of your life to university won’t be necessary. Learning is our responsibility and teaching ourselves in the Information Age couldn’t be any easier.

The question is not whether or not we need a bachelor’s degree. It’s whether the job we want requires it, because not everyone is running the same rat race. Some careers do. Some will just be more convenient to pursue with a degree. Others simply don’t care what our papers say as long as we can get shit done.

At the end of the day, higher education is only a means to an end, because the proving grounds are in the real world. We don’t leave a mark in the world as a passive student.

Confidence

Post-WWII, society had developed protocols, procedures and processes for everything. I won’t go into great detail because world history was never my best subject at school, but basically everything was crap and then some guys dropped a couple of bombs in Japan and almost all the Jews got killed by another dude with only one testicle and then everyone decided to get really, really organized with their stuff.

Majority of us have grown so acclimatized to how aspects of our lives have been classified into tables, plotted onto charts and fitted into tidy lines, that we don’t always realize that what we’ve essentially done with all the red tape is to put ourselves into boxes. In time, we find ourselves running up against the invisible walls of such boxes constructed by our particular preconceptions of “how things should work”.

We are accused of being lazy, selfish, entitled and rude. Older generations scold our lack of initiative and our apparent expectation of being shown through, but the wall is very real to us. Fortunately for us, these walls can easily be broken with some boldness and a change in perception – it’s all right to step outside the box. Especially when we have the skills, the passion and the connections to empower changes, challenge established traditions and update the rules accordingly.

Most of us will dedicate our early twenties to finding the place we will fill in this world. It’s a riddle of life containing a limiting presupposition, which suggests that we will eventually grow to fill a spot already provided and predefined, which is a formidable thought for a twenty-something such as myself. Taboo, motherfucker!

We’re fired with passion, but the odds in society are against us – incentives misaligned, consequences neglected, methodologies adopted with little consideration. This may come off a little strong, but it almost seems as if we’re coming of age into a world that doesn’t have a place for us, that can’t fully utilize us, that expects us to wait idly on the sidelines and be thankful for placeholders like internships.

The first step towards overcoming these issues is having the knowledge that life is not a mere multiple-choice test. The second step is having the confidence and perseverance not just to change the options handed to us, but also create new opportunities for ourselves even if it leads us off the well-worn path. The third step is to do as Beckett suggests and “try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

Luck

I don’t want to say too much lest I jinx myself. Also, I’ve run out of steam and feel exhausted from writing this.

2014, 22 years old

I don’t mean to toot my own horn here, but guys, I pass my driving test on my first attempt. (High fives all around!) It’s no secret that I lack motor skills, have poor (almost non-existent) judgment, and am very easily excitable. So this news of my being able to legally drive a manual car surprises everyone, especially my family. My only problem is that I can’t park without an audience of about five strangers gathering around the car to witness my outstanding parking abilities and at least two passengers screaming into my ear “THERE IS A PILLAR! THERE IS A PILLAR! STOP REVERSING! THERE IS A PILLAR!”

I go to Europe. NOTHING IN YOUR LIFE CAN PREPARE YOU ENOUGH FOR EUROPE. RAAAAAAAAA TRALALALALA LAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! I don’t know how Europeans live, honestly. Y’know, maybe that’s why there’s the Euro Crisis going on?

I don’t think too much about it because every other person in their early twenties I know is attending school in some sort of castle, living in far away new places, away from their families and childhood friends, and none of them are dead yet. Hell, I even have friends who begin this amazing journey as young as 14, who are still alive today.

The point I completely miss, is that their main reason for going abroad – or should I say ‘raison d’ètre’, as the French do – is to get an education at a prestigious university. On the other hand, my main reason for going abroad is for an internship (AKA an education in the real world. Whaddup, motherf*cker.). And it’s not even the kind you do for school credits. (HELLO??? Has anyone been paying any attention at all to the story of my life? I graduated last year.) It’s the kind you do after your wise elder brother encourages you to write some emails offering your help to the designers you think are cool.

I don’t know why this idea doesn’t come to me earlier. Actually, it does, and the first people I offer my free labor to are Prada and Louis Vuitton, who give me the cold shoulder treatment. I take it as a personal attack; even though I’m quite sure my emails went straight to their spam folder.

The struggle is REAL in the real world, people. (They don’t call it the real world fer nuttin’.) I struggle to stay alive and I struggle to fit in. Initially, it’s daunting to realize that everything is on my terms now, and for the first time in my life, I’m the boss – OK, not really, but with the Real Boss/my dad being in a different time zone, I kinda am. But then it’s actually very liberating when you start carving out the life you want for yourself. Even if you don’t know what the hell it is that you want in life, carving is so fun, omg!

I cross paths with an endless stream of beautiful and inspiring people, who give me new perspectives and ideas on life and love and everything else. I feel as though I haven’t really lived until now. I wake up every morning feeling stupefied at how big this world actually is. 

My relationship with Bryan gets ‘complicated’ and I feel a fleeting pang in my heart for I know that the innocent phase of our life together has passed. There are certain things I know and certain things I don’t. I know that I am in love. And I know that love requires selflessness, because it’s not just about me anymore – it’s about us. But I also know that there are other things I have to see and experience for myself, in order to grow as a person/be certain of myself – not of my love for him, please note – and that is kind of selfish. Do you see the dilemma, the greatest irony of life?

I’ve spent the last decade trying to find the edges of the box I was born into. I’ve made it a point to feel and see as much as I can, and go balls to the wall with everything that I do. I’ve even dedicated the last couple of years to testing myself – seeing how far I can go before retreating back to what feels safe. (Oh…. My…… God……. This is worse than the mystery of the Da Vinci Code.) And I wasn’t about to pull the plug on this project I’d committed practically my whole life prior to this moment, just because I was now in love with not just myself anymore, but also Bryan.

Test: I try MDMA because I want to know if the drug takes my brain and dumps all of its contents out onto an abandoned parking space. Conclusion: IT DOES. I can’t do anything for a day because I’m too busy doing cartwheels and licking my own hair. Test: I hook up with a stranger because I want to know if I can just switch my emotions off and wake up the next morning not hating myself. Conclusion: I CAN’T. No further elaboration required. Test: I hang out with my first ex-boyfriend, who happens to be in London the same time I am, because I want to know if he still has power over me. Conclusion: HE DOESN’T. And I’m reminded of exactly why we broke up in the first place and why we could never be together forever.

Then it occurs to me that maybe there are no edges? You can’t find what doesn’t exist. PLOT TWIST! I realize that every single day, we are defined by our choices. Nothing else. And today, I can say that I no longer feel the need to test myself as much because I’m not in denial or in doubt about who I truly am. I know my limits, because I decide what my limits are. I know what feels right and seeking out the bad stuff just doesn’t feel thrilling anymore. In fact, it just feels like crap. Some of us learn the hard way. Exhibit A: Yours truly. (But we learn it well.) 

The moral of the story is, don’t fall in love when you’re young. Just keep playing with your stuffed animals and plush toys. It’s much less ‘complicated’. Seriously though, don’t fall in love before you figure out who you are. Best of luck to the clueless who are trying to incorporate a whole new person into the picture with them. (This is SO WEIRD. I hope my mom never reads this; otherwise she’ll be so pissed. She’s fed me this piece of advice like, 3 million times since my first boyfriend. I obviously never listened. But here I am now, preaching like I came up with it.)

Unfortunately, it’s never that simple in reality. If we could decide exactly when, where, how and who we fall in love with, do you think we’d have any movies or songs written? Nobody would pray and God would probably be bored to death watching everyone live their lives happily ever after. 

Love just happens. (Kinda like how shit just happens, hey?) Sometimes, love happens without warning, in the most inconvenient of situations, under the most trying and testing circumstances. But do you know when I think love really likes to happen? It likes to happen when we aren’t ready for it, completely unequipped, and usually there’s no user guide provided. (Gee, that’s really thoughtful of you, Love.) Because that’s when it is the most pure, it’s when it could really grow into something beautiful. Now I’m not saying all love will definitely evolve into something marvelous. You reap what you sow, people. C’mon! Be real, stay with me.

So… What then?

I honestly don’t know, actually. If I did then I probably wouldn’t have slipped into this deep state of uncontrollable, circumstantial depression from which I may or may not ever recover from. I think it’s like that quote, “sometimes good things fall apart so that better things can fall together.” It’s about being understanding, as you give each other space to figure out who you are as individuals. It’s about not pointing fingers and walking away.

I get that ‘waiting’ is frowned upon in today’s modern society. Instant gratification, instant noodles, Instant Messenger, Instagram. (OMG, don’t get me started on how much I LOVE it.) We hate waiting for the bus (because we’re better than that), we hate waiting for that video you just posed on Facebook to load (because we’re better than that), and we definitely hate waiting for people (because we’re better than that). Are we really? Or are we just impatient? What’s a few years (maximum 2, Bryan. Just kidding???? Not really. I’m being serious now. Don’t be a dipshit about it.) of being apart? Because y’know, when it’s for real, it’s forever. And my favourite part about this: If it comes back to you, it’s yours to keep. (And if it doesn’t, he’s just a stupid moron.)

However, there is a difference between a person who is learning and a person who is just playing games. Some need to experience certain things and allow themselves to grow and change so that they are more prepared to embark on that long-term commitment. Others just want to make sure there’s nothing better out there and then crawl back to you when they don’t find anything but syphilis and gonorrhea. (Believe me, they will. Why do you think my ex-boyfriends still talk to me and are the first people to wish me a happy birthday, after I put them in the ground and they’re supposed to be dead now? Just kidding!)

It’s a fine line between the two but you will know. Just trust your intuition, it’s much more reliable than what you give it credit for.

OH MY GOD. So many words already, and I haven’t even got to the part about quitting my dream job, which is going to take another eternity to explain. 

I have the attention span the length of an eyelash, so it doesn’t take me very long to learn what I like and dislike. To add to that, my gut instincts are never wrong. I never ignore it because it’s like a cheat sheet for my life. It’s the only thing that will never fuck me over. Now you’re probably in shock and think I’m crazy for quitting my first real job just two months into it, based on the aforementioned reasons. Don’t be, it’s not good for your heart. I’ve always been erratic, wayward, and unpredictable. So don’t worry, I’ve got this. But because none of you actually gave birth to me and/or brought me up, I will give you an abridged version: Whatever is good for your body and soul, do that. Love and respect yourself enough to walk away from something that no longer serves you, grows you, or makes you happy.

After all, life is simple. Don’t overthink it. Right, baby bug?

2013, 21 years old

So I’m a bit confused. You know how in movies, people always seem to meet their soul mates in nightclubs and they dance and kiss the night away until they go home together? I don’t know how this scenario is supposed to play out in real life, but I kind of get the impression that under strobe lighting and after some tequila, any guy can be the perfect guy if you want him to be.

I don’t usually like to kiss and tell (Wait, who am I kidding? It’s just the kind of thing I like to document and share on at least 12 different social-networking sites) but the first and only time I follow someone I meet at a nightclub home, is actually a story worth oversharing. 

My soul mate is supposed to be a French heartthrob, who is at least five years older than me, has dirty blonde curls, and works in finance as a trader. I think. I dunno, really. I hear they do a lot of coke and tend to womanize. The guy I go home with is the total opposite – he’s an American kid with spiky blonde hair, one year my junior. We watch Captain America and order in hotcakes from McDonald’s. Then he lets me play with his rabbit. And I mean an actual rabbit. Not like, code word for penis, or something. In fact, the rabbit actually belongs to his girlfriend. He’s just helping her feed it over the weekend while she’s in Thailand. 

The only thing that I had to do that I didn’t really want to do that night, was eat hotcakes from McDonald’s. I’ve heard stories of girls being forced to eat much more. Just saying…

Now, this could have very well been one of those stories that ends with me being dead. I don’t know if it’s obvious enough to the naked eye yet, but there’s something in my DNA that makes me act on impulse without much thought and take terribly miscalculated risks. Over and over again.

On a sourcing trip to Hong Kong that year, I ask a stranger for directions. Of course, he knows the shortest way possible to get me to my destination and takes me through several quiet back alleys that are the perfect place to kidnap and harvest someone’s organs.

Later, I am severely handicapped in Guangzhou because I can’t understand or speak a word of mandarin. But by sheer luck, I hop onto the correct train. And by way of the counting rhyme ‘Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe’, I alight at the correct station.

And even later, I visit Istanbul and hang out with our driver after the tour is over. He takes me to a romantic lookout point on a hilltop. We’re in Europe, but we can see Asia – it’s magnificent. In the car ride back to my hotel, he asks if he can kiss me. I say “no” really awkwardly and really afraid to offend him. All the buildings look the same, and all I can do is cross my fingers and hope that he’s still driving me back to my hotel.

Throwback to 2010, I’m in Devon (UK) visiting my brother-in-law’s family. After a long night at the pub with his nieces who are around the same age as I am, they put me in a cab and send me on my way back to my hotel. I realize that I need to pee, so I stop the cabdriver and return to the pub to use the W.C. As I’m walking past the bar towards the exit, a fireman grabs my arm and starts a conversation. How does anyone say no to a fireman? The fireman, his skinhead friend and I end up walking down to the river and we talk about Asian food for a couple of hours.

I seem to really get off putting myself in situations where I have a 97% chance of being abducted/drugged/raped/killed. Is it because I don’t value my life? Could I be addicted to the drama? Am I just very naïve? I’m really hesitant to continue from here, because I don’t want to jinx it. Despite the odds being what they are, and where others have suffered third-degree burns, I’ve only ever walked out of fires unscathed with a couple of anecdotes in hand.

I pray to God to thank him for watching over me and I send roses to Lady Luck for smiling down on me. But to a large extent, I believe that we’re responsible for what manifests in our own lives because we attract who and what we are and we attract by vibrations. 

Ok. I’m going to sound a bit loony, but there’s a quote by Thomas Dreier that goes “The world is a great mirror. It reflects back to you what you are. If you are loving, if you are friendly, if you are helpful, the world will prove loving and friendly and helpful to you. The world is what you are.” 

Bryan and I start dating.

Our personalities are polar opposites. He is the kindest person I know, and ‘Justine’ seems synonymous with ‘Bitch From Hell’ by most people’s definition. He is slow to anger, sometimes even retarded – he seldom loses his temper with anyone or in any situation. At the other end of the spectrum, I am super quick to jump to assumptions and draw wildly inaccurate conclusions, busting his balls for no good reason. (Remember the time we watched a movie where the guy cheats on his wife and I got angry at you? LOL. And remember the time your friend brought your ex-girlfriend, who wasn’t actually your ex-girlfriend, to your birthday party unannounced and I got angry at you? #memories. And remember the time when I was just tired and hungry… And I got angry at you? Heeheehee.) He is always rational and has some sort of logical thought process behind every decision he makes, while I thrive in an ecosystem devoid of reason, powered by chocolate and impulse, constantly shooting myself in the foot and falling flat on my face.

Sometimes, two people come together, and it is just Not Wrong. (Eg: the collaboration between Jay-Z and Justin Timberlake. #HolyGrail) Aside from our clashing personalities working strangely in our favor, we are super comfortable with each other, aren’t afraid of looking stupid in front of each other, share the same values, have similar interests, are always eager to rip each other’s clothes off, but most importantly, we make each other laugh in a way no one else can.

And here’s the deal:

Life is hard. Life is stupid. Life is devastating. Shit happens. (Sometimes shit happens in your pants when you fart while walking to the bus stop. And sometimes pee can also happen. In bed when you’re too excited to run to the toilet.) Life is going to throw you more than a few curveballs that will leave you naked and vulnerable, and the only way to get through them is to laugh. First by yourself and then with someone else. I promise you it is the only thing that will keep you sane, even if you look crazy laughing. I’ve laughed my way through teeth extractions, betrayal, the depression and isolation of body image anxiety, the heartbreak of a comatose granddad, the humiliation of walking around with a period stain on white jeans, the mediocrity of my exam scores, a ton of other first world problems. You name it, I’ve LOL-ed at it. Usually after I’ve bawled my eyes out first. (I’ll admit it I’m a crybaby.) But what’s the alternative? How else do you cope?

I graduate from my diploma course. I intern with a local designer. I realize it’s not for me. I practice yoga with my mom everyday while I contemplate my next move.

2012, 20 years old

This path isn’t for the faint-hearted. The people who usually embark on this journey do it because of a) an undying passion for fashion b) a keen interest in styles and trends c) a desire to be the next McQueen d) all of the above. I’m kind of an oddball, because I’m just extremely curious about how clothes are made.

I learn how to draft, drape, and sew in school. It’s a wonderful feeling to have your ideas grow from something intangible, into two-dimensional sketches and paper patterns, and then finally come to life as three-dimensional garments. (Haha, whatever.)

I work very hard. I’m early for my classes, I don’t dare miss a lesson, I complete my assignments diligently and on time, I pay attention to what my lecturers say, and I think my work is actually not too bad. I even think my sewing teacher might like me. I fall off the face of the earth to sew beads onto my bustier and hand stitch the ruches onto my evening gown. I am permanently cross-eyed and almost blind from working dead into the night, every night. 

I find it super hard to make friends, though. The last time I was really alone in a new place without a single friend, I was four years old. Since kindergarten, I’ve had at least a couple of friends to take me through primary, secondary, and junior college. It occurs to me that this is the first time I’m breaking away from the pack and marching to the beat of my own drum. I’m an airhead with no sense of rhythm, so this is kind of alarming.

There are serious consequences to dating someone you only have lukewarm feelings for. (Suggested Reading List: The Law of Fuck Yes or No.) They appear small at first, but then blow up in your face in no time. You will feel alone as you make pancakes with them. You will hate them when they do something sweet like pick an eyelash off your face, and then you will hate yourself for hating something that was so clearly done out of love and affection.

Sometimes, two people come together, and it is just Wrong. Not everyone who wants to stick their tongue down your throat is the peanut butter to your jelly, or the yin to your yang. It’s not a big deal. Kill the relationship with kindness and move on. If you don’t, you will feel more insane with each passing day. 

Both my brothers get married this year. Jarrold in October, Stu in December. There is now overcrowding in our home, but it is a warm and fuzzy kind of stepping on each other’s toes and sharing of handbags and nail polish. 

My friend mentions that his friend is looking for a date to take to his officer’s social night event. I volunteer myself. It’s at the fancy St. Regis hotel. I take a cab down, bad idea. I get motion sickness from the ride. I look out for a guy in a navy suit, we find each other and exchange A/S/L. He’s one of the main organizers, so he’s got duties. As his date, I also have a duty – to mend the reception table and receive guests. I’m useful for the first 10 minutes, then I have to rest my head on the table – the reception table. 

The dinner begins. Our first course is a delicious, rich and creamy mushroom soup. I take five sips and then excuse myself from the table. The ladies’ is about 600m away. I don’t think I can make it. The bar is 150m away, so I run to the bar. I don’t beat about the bush with the bartender. I lean over the counter and say “I’m about to puke. Do you have a plastic bag?” His pupils dilate. He scrambles around the bar, and returns holding a plastic bag open in front of my face. “But it has holes!” But it’s too late! And soon there is my vomit dripping out of the plastic bag onto his counter. I don’t dare look up to see his face. I reach for some napkins, mumble an “I’m sorry” and make a dash for the ladies’.

I believe in making impactful first impressions.

I finally end my relationship. After six months of trying to end it, but succumbing to his emotional blackmail each time, it’s the best breakup ever. It’s unusual; I don’t remember break ups ever feeling this good. What’s even more unusual is that the tipping point has nothing to do with the relationship or either of us. But everything to do with the fight I have with my father that makes me feel as though there is nothing more in this world that I can possibly lose. (I’m very dramatic. All the time.)

Backstory: My dad is full of compassion, wisdom, and energy. (I think he stores all of these in his biceps.) He’s a generous and kind man who enjoys mentoring the young and disillusioned. He’s more than willing to help anyone and everyone, especially now that 3 of his 4 children have already got their shit together, and his youngest child (AKA me) would rather learn the hard way, by herself, on her own terms, usually through trial and much grave error such as throwing a ton of shit at the wall and then hanging around to see what sticks. As a result, he has taken a handful of Young Adults At Risk (YAAR) under his wings.

Bla bla bla, this is getting draggy. Basically, after a night of drinking at the bar with my dad, his YAAR, and my boyfriend (this is BEFORE the fight, so we are still together), my dad insists on sending his YAAR home in a cab while my boyfriend sends me home in another cab. I go ballistic. (As mentioned, I’m very dramatic.)

My thoughts are something like “Why can’t the YAAR get into a cab and go home himself? You’re a bit high yourself. And we live in the same house. And you’re my father. I think it makes more sense if we went home together. No, I do not want my boyfriend to send me home. I want my father to send me home!” I should also probably mention that the YAAR is wearing a distasteful brocade suit and I highly suspect that he is gay. In the end, I break up with my boyfriend and cease communication with my father for three weeks.

2011, 19 years old

Oh… My… God… Just when you thought I was done (AKA I quit – LOL. I’mma lil quitter. My dad doesn’t find this amusing at all, btw) rambling on about my so-called ‘life’, here I am again.

The thing about being 19, is that I’m smart enough to study a sequence and prove… Eh… Some stuff? By mathematical induction… And, umm. That’s about it. (Actually, this statement is up for debate because my answers are wrong 9 out of 10 attempts.) 

I don’t really know anything about life. But I don’t freak out because I read a quote on Tumblr about how nobody else actually does – not the corporate executive, not your pot dealer, not our president, not the cashier at 7-Eleven. The real problem is that I don’t really know anything about myself.

In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Polonius tells his son, Laertes, “This above all: to thine own self be true”— and then, blah blah blah, a bunch of far less quotable stuff. Since then, this advice has been dispensed approximately 9,574,733,825 times. As a young and growing person, who is no doubt still young and very much growing, living in an era where self-centeredness is unfortunately on the rise across society, I hear it a lot. While I think it is a sage and catchy slogan, suggesting, as it does, purity, righteousness, and a consistent personality of some sort, in a world where everyone seems to be pulling each other this way and that, there’s one thing that kinda bugs me about this popular wisdom: I don’t get it.

Is it as simple as Dwayne says it is, “You do what you love, and fuck the rest”? I know being myself is supposed to be a straightforward and uncomplicated task, but my ‘self’ doesn’t seem like a definite thing such as a bookshelf or pencil sharpener. As much as I hate to get all “philosophical” on you and come off sounding like an aloof liberal arts student, is it possible for us to really know who we are?

I do know a few things about myself, of course. I know my allergies and shoe size. Though not set in stone, I know my beliefs and can predict most of my actions. My thoughts and feelings are, to a great extent my own, despite influence from various external factors. But my personality and habits have not been completely the same since birth. Between 10 and 12 years of age, I lived in nothing but a baggy Paddington Bear t-shirt and a pair of Bermuda shorts. These days, sundresses and funky pants spill out from my wardrobe onto my desk and bedroom floor. In my first year at junior college, I refused to talk to a girl because she looked like a cat but by our graduation I had her back and knew she had mine. I discovered I had sort of a knack for writing and intended to study journalism at university and even put myself through a 3-month stint as an unpaid editorial intern, only to do a 180 and enroll into design school to pursue a course in fashion. My routine of stumbling home at 5am after a night of tequila induced dancing has been replaced by late nights hunched over a sewing machine. I hate sand, seawater, and the sun (not in a vampire way) but have been bugging my boyfriend to take me to the beach.

Strip me of my clumpy mascara and worn out Chucks and I’m nothing more than a walking bag of contradictions and erratic behavior that I don’t understand and can’t explain. I feel foolish now for trying all this time to define myself (uh?) in order to know myself (huh??) in order to stay true to myself (shut up), after realizing how defining oneself seems limiting and my priorities shift from year to year and even hour to hour. To quote a certain Greek philosopher, “Change is the only constant”. Fun fact: People change. We should be free to recreate and redefine ourselves as and when we want to without being unjustly accused of being unsure of ourselves and/or selling out. It’s odd that change of any form and at any degree is often seen in a negative light and widely interpreted as not being true to oneself, when there can be so many real and valid reasons that prompt change in a person’s character. I may be listening to electronic salsa music at the moment, but I won’t be forever and it won’t be because someone told me to stop or because I’ve lost sight of who I am.

Anyway, typing all of that made me more confused than before and I don’t know what my problem is/was anymore. I just feel like I’ve been too busy entertaining my childish hankering for a perfection that doesn’t exist and too preoccupied acquiring and internalizing values, desires and opinions from everyone else to the point where parts of my life and myself didn’t feel as authentic as I’d imagined them to be.

With school out of the picture for the time being, I channel my time and energy towards misadventures in ‘job promiscuity’ as Sophia Amoruso calls it. I work as a customer service officer at a call center for an Australian drug company. My shift starts at 6am, I follow a script, it pays pretty well, but the office pantry sucks. I work as a barista at a café. Mind you, this is BEFORE latte art is even A Thing. The most challenging part of my day is balancing three cups of cappuccinos on a tray. I work as a retail assistant at a concept store. I’m lucky it’s one of those ‘indie’ type of places, where I’m not required to do much talking or selling, both of which I am terrible at. “Hey, you! Have you seen our rabbit lamp? I think your life would be so much better if you had this rabbit lamp in your bedroom. Look, you can even turn it on. Ooh… And, off! Aah… Isn’t it just so cool? Only $390.” I volunteer at a fashion festival. It’s my first time attending a fashion show and rubbing shoulders with fashionable people. I don’t understand any of the hype, but pretend to get excited by lace dresses and mohair shawls. I act in a short film. I’m the protagonist and thankful it is a non-speaking part. I break into a Filipino accent whenever I concentrate on my voice too much – remember those vlogs I made? LOL. I intern with a lifestyle magazine and write reviews about hotels and beaches that I’ve never been to in my life. The aspiring journalist in me dies a little.

I cut my hair like a boy. I’ve long had a history of self-sabotaging behavior, but this is unprecedented. This is just outright self-hatred. Like cutting your wrist, but cutting your hair instead.

I take my first vacation without my family. I go to Bangkok with Rah and Char. I arrive six hours before they do, so I do some shopping on my own. I buy a wig. We leave Singapore with the impression that we will meet up with Nut at some point, because she is also there holidaying with her family. She never picks up our calls. It is a super fun holiday of foot massages, coconut ice cream, impulse buys, traumatizing ping pong show and dancing. 

“OUR LAST DAY IN BANGKOK”

FADE IN:

EXT. DREAM WORLD – DAY

Sun is scotching. I already have a headache from the heat, mild dehydration, cab ride to Dream World, and my wig.

RAH and CHAR are ecstatic to be at the theme park. I hate theme parks. I hate rollercoasters. I ride one rollercoaster and need to go back to the hotel because I feel sick. 

INT. CAB – DAY

I get into a cab alone and fall asleep. When I open my eyes, we are moving sluggishly along the expressway because the engine is about to fail. 

The cabdriver turns off into a small street. I think I am being kidnapped, but not throwing up in the cab is my top priority for some odd reason. I close my eyes, cross my fingers, and try to keep my lunch down. 

The streets get quieter and narrower, until we reach some kind of workshop area and – praise the Lord – there are several other cabs. My cabdriver apologizes for the inconvenience in Thai. (I don’t understand Thai, but I understand body language very well.)

INT. ANOTHER CAB – DAY

I get into another cab and I’m back at our hotel within minutes. 

FADE OUT.

THE END.

But, no. When God plays a practical joke on me, he usually likes to go for the kind with a double punchline. 

I get into the elevator with three other people. We were upgraded to a nice suite, so we’re pretty high up. Somewhere between the eighth and ninth floor, I puke in my mouth. It’s another ten or so floors before I can get out, and there are three other people in the elevator with me, dammit. I struggle to keep my vomit in my mouth. (I can be really, really, really considerate when I want to be.) It’s the most intense elevator ride of my life.

I start dating someone nice. At first, I don’t even like him in the way you’re supposed to like somebody you’re dating. I guess I’m just so shocked that someone likes me. (OMG, me??! You like ME? Yay!) But I convince myself that I do. I don’t know if you see the pattern yet, but I can and will tell myself anything that I want to tell myself. My internal monologue is THAT powerful and persuasive (and delusional and neurotic and disturbed). 

The local university isn’t particularly impressed with my mediocre grades of BBCB and rejects my application. That’s what studying three weeks before the A-level exams gets you, kids! I don’t despair, though. I only applied because all my peers were applying, and it seemed like ‘the right thing’ to be doing. I mean, what else can you do with your A-level score? Make alphabet soup? I muster some courage and enroll in the fashion design course I’d been pestering my parents about since I was 16.