Since I was a child, I’ve had to battle procrastination. My mind rejects the concept of time management. My greatest vice is the pursuit of instant gratification.

But, at the same time, I’ve also always felt a strong need to make every second of my life count by continually learning as much as humanly possible and improving every aspect of myself.

This cognitive dissonance totally screws up my sanity.

Early this year, I realised that acting jobs were going to be slow in coming, which meant that I was going to have many, many free days to spend however I liked. I knew that if I didn’t manage myself properly, I would end up parking myself in front of the computer 10 hours a day surfing the net aimlessly or playing WoW.

So I came up with a masterplan.

To motivate myself, I bought a nice notebook to make lists in. (I love pretty notebooks and making lists.)

I marked out several categories of “tasks” in my notebook. Under each category is a long list of relevant task items. For example:

Urgent Tasks
- reply john’s email
- pay credit card bill

Not So Urgent Tasks
- do nails
- call susan about collecting DVD

Daily Work
- blog
- work on new project

Self-Improvement
- read an acting book
- practice singing
- rehearse a monologue

Fun Activities
- play WoW
- watch an anime
- read a novel

Exercise
- go jogging
- work out at home

(The above is just a sample. Every category consists of many more items, of course.)

The idea was to make sure I balanced my activities so I wouldn’t neglect anything I felt was important for my personal growth and well-being.

So my plan was that, each day, I would first tackle urgent tasks, then spend my day fulfilling time quotas on each category:

- 5 hours for work
- 3 hours for self-improvement
- 3 hours for fun
- 1 hour for exercise

I would mix and match. Do some work first, then have some fun, then do some more work. However I did it, I would perform one or two tasks from each category, rotating daily so that every task will have received some attention by the end of the week.

I thought this idea was really cool when I first devised it. And I had a lot of fun making the lists. I couldn’t wait for the next day to come. I wanted to start on my plan already.

And then the next day came and the first thing I did was write a blog.

I posted my blog and then I got distracted by all the evil internetly distractions. Started surfing around aimlessly. I told myself I’d do it for just awhile. But awhile turned to six hours and then there wasn’t any more time in the day to do anything else.

This repeated itself the entire week.

I did manage to tick off some urgent tasks (but that category fills up at about the same rate as items get ticked off) and I blogged daily.

But that was all. I didn’t do anything else! Not even the fun stuff I knew I would enjoy doing! I usually even enjoy doing self-improvement activities, so I really had no reason to proscrastinte on those!

Whoever procrastinates having fun??!

So my masterplan was a total failure. Not a single day was spent as planned and my notebook rotted in a corner of my table, and I tried to pretend that it never existed. I turned into a slug.

And then my friend rang me up about doing that day job, so I gave up my brilliant masterplan and accepted the job offer.

I am so ashamed of myself!

But I’m giving myself a chance to redeem myself. The projects in my day job has dried up for now and there looks to be no work in March, which means I can attempt to carry out my masterplan once again.

I’m so excited about it.

I think I’m usually more excitable in the planning stage than in the execution stage. Which is the whole trouble.

But I just gotta force myself to do it no matter what.

Life is so crazy and there are so many things to do. I can never understand people who complain about being bored. There are so many things to do in life and not enough time as it is.

Wish me luck!

One of my wildest fantasies is being a medieval princess living in a castle so big I could get lost in it, having handmaidens dress me in beautiful flowing gowns that accentuate my full, shapely breasts and curvy hips, after which I would frolick about in the royal gardens, pretending to ignore the declarations of love and sweet wooings of my dashing, gallant, chivalrous prince from a neighbouring kingdom, occasionally favouring him with a comely giggle or two.

Another of my wildest fantasies is crawling into a hole and dying.

But it seems that wild fantasies are not made to be realised, so here I am a struggling actress and sometimes blogger, who has bills to pay and people to impress and chores to do and still very much alive.

Which is well and good. It’s just that it gets a little tiresome at times. Especially when life keeps making demands of you. People make demands of you. And you give and give and give and nobody gives you anything back in return but you have to continue smiling and playing nice. And people make empty promises, shamelessly taking advantage of your trust and your kindness and your time.

Of course, it’s not always like that. There are truly good friends and loved ones. They’re always there to warm your heart when it gets too cold, knead your neck when the going gets tough, make you laugh when you feel like crying.

But friends and loved ones can’t shelter you 24/7 and pay your bills and fulfil your dreams. So out there you have to go each day. Put on your armour and fight the fight, continue to give and give and give, knowing that you can’t win the fight because you refuse to play the shameless, dirty game that everyone else is playing.

I think good people really suffer in the world.

Well, some call them good. Others call them gullible.

Does wanting to survive in this cold, cruel world mean that you have to be cold and cruel as well? Scheme and manipulate to get what you want, and then disappear from people’s lives after you’ve milked them for all they’re worth without giving them anything in return but empty promises?

It makes me scared. I don’t want to fight. I couldn’t win a battle which rules I don’t believe in.

It makes me wish I had been born evil.

I used to hate jazz when I was much younger. I mean really hate. Jazz offended me because I thought music shouldn’t hurt the ears like that, with its weird cacophony of sounds.

I did appreciate some jazz, but only those that incorporated more mainstream melodic vocals. I liked listening to some Christmas carols sung jazz style. And I enjoyed Kenny G, although I know jazz purists would call it sacrilege to associate Kenny G with jazz.

But I hated jazz in its pure, undiluted form. The tunes go up and down like a roller coaster ride in a seemingly random fashion. There’s no melody. The tempo is schizophrenic. Trumpets are noisy. I didn’t understand the genre and I didn’t understand why people would call it music, because it’s just noise to me. Like how the older generation calls heavy metal noise.

Unfortunately, the Goonfather loves jazz.

When I first found out, I was like, “OMG I’m dating an uncle.”

(In Singapore, “uncle” is often used to describe someone who’s not old but acts old and dated. Of course, we also call old and dated people uncle, but it’s funnier when you call a young man uncle.)

I was of the mind that only old people like jazz.

Whenever the Goonfather played one of his jazz albums in the car, I would make a face at him and change the disc.

But I have to allow him his pleasures sometimes. He likes to put on a jazz CD at home, dim the lights and then sit or lie down and zone out, maybe with a glass of red. Totally uncle behaviour. But I let him do it because he doesn’t do it too often.

Thankfully, his choice of jazz veers towards the more melodic type, like “Dream a Little Dream of Me”.

I used to hate that song because I found the melody irritating, like many other jazz melodies. But I’m beginning to like it now, thanks to people around me who won’t quit playing or singing it.

After knowing the Goonfather, I gradually, unknowingly changed my status from “Hate jazz” to “Don’t mind the Goonfather’s jazz”.

And then…

The most incomprehensible thing happened.

Last night, I was at Bellini Room (the jazz/blues outlet of discoplex St James Power Station) and the band was playing this piece featuring a saxophone-clarinet duet and no vocals (exactly the kind I used to hate vehemently) and I was thinking, “This is quite nice, doesn’t hurt my ears.”

OMG.

I turned on the Goonfather, accusing him, “You make me old!”

“What?” he said, startled.

“I’m actually enjoying this stupid music and it’s all your fault! You make me listen to jazz and bring me to these jazz places. You’re making me old!!”

“Nay,” he said sagely. “You’ve upgraded. You have to be of higher status to appreciate jazz. So, congratulations.”

I gave him a look. “Old people listen to jazz. It has nothing to do with status.”

“Ok,” he said. “I shall quit my job and work at McDonald’s and next time we go Dragonfly instead of Bellini.”

(Dragonfly is the canto-pop arm of St James, frequented by young adults. I’ve been trying to get the Goonfather to go to Dragonfly since St James opened for business more than a year ago, but my plans have never materialised for some reason or other, one of them being that the Goonfather claims he’s graduated in taste and status and now hates teeny-bopper music.)

That wasn’t much of a threat. Wasn’t much of anything, in fact, so our conversation veered away because it was ridiculous in the first place.

But I was quite perturbed by my realisation that I didn’t hate jazz anymore.

I listened to the band intently, analysing the sounds, trying to figure out why I used to hate it and why I didn’t hate it now. Maybe the bands I had occasion to hear in the past sucked. Maybe the band at Bellini Room is really good.

Or maybe my tastes have really changed. Which is quite possible. I used to love Pez candy when I was a kid but now I can’t imagine why. It’s hard and tastes just like sugar. I would probably get more pleasure out of sucking rock sugar, an activity I don’t fancy in the first place.

I DON’T KNOW.

I just know that the sound of jazz doesn’t offend me anymore.

OMG.

For the moment, I’m putting it down to the charismatic singers at Bellini Room.

My favourite, suave and dashing Tom Brown:

Smouldering Darius Mendoza, who prances on-stage and off-stage like a rock star instead of a jazz singer:

Sexy Jeassea Thyidor, who was a Singapore Idol contestant.

They’re all really good and are contributing to my mysterious conversion.

I can’t say I love jazz yet. But I can say that I’m looking forward to being a Bellini Room regular.

Does that mean I’m getting old?

OMG.

Mr Mendoza serenades to an unsuspecting birthday girl with a seductive rendition of “Happy Birthday”.

Before you read any further, please note that it is not my intention to pass judgement on anyone. I am merely musing aloud and considering the different sides of a coin. Kthx.

Recently, a blogger received flak from the blogging community for posting a picture of a sexily-dressed woman and calling her a prostitute. The blogger has since removed the post.

For background, you can read the following posts:
A prostitute takes the bus (cached page)
Cowboy Caleb Killed A Sex Blog Yesterday
Sex blogging can ruin your offline reputation

Okay, my thoughts on this.

First side of the coin:

I applaud people for stepping out and defending the integrity of sexily-dressed women. The general consensus is that you can’t assume a woman is a prostitute just because she’s scantily clad. I couldn’t agree more.

Women should be able to dress however they like without having people pass judgement on them. In fact, I have so many readers requesting that I stop wearing cutesy outfits and start wearing more sexy outfits. Will they call me a prostitute if I did that? I don’t think so.

Other side of the coin:

Do you people realise that, by defending the sexy woman taking the bus, we are dissing prostitutes? We are saying that prostitution is such an unsavory profession that you’re insulting a woman by calling her a prostitute. But, by saying that, aren’t we insulting prostitutes?

Admittedly, prostitution has always had a negative aura around it, but that isn’t really the point. I just find it amusing that, by trying not to stereotype sexily-dressed women, we end up stereotyping prostitutes.

Consider this statement: “Just because a woman dresses sexily, it doesn’t mean she’s a prostitute!”

By displaying a tolerance towards sexily-dressed women, you are in fact negating the very same tolerance by offhandedly condeming prostitutes.

Hilarious, right?

If the blogger had posted a picture of a woman in a suit taking a bus and said, “A lawyer takes the bus”, nobody will raise any hell over it because lawyers are respectable and being called a lawyer could even be a compliment.

Why the rubbish is that?

Sure, I have on occasion stereotyped and made jokes about prostitutes, but I bear them no malice and, really, when I think about it, they’re just doing a job. If anyone should be condemned, it should be the people who create the demand for prostitutes in the first place.

So… let’s not stereotype sexily-dressed women. Let’s not stereotype prostitutes. Let’s love your neighbours and promote world peace and live happily forever more.

Riiiight.

I haven’t blogged for only two days but it feels like I haven’t blogged forever. It feels alien to open up WordPress and attempt to once again fill an empty box with words.

It’s rather crazy, this blogging thing, how it makes people feel obliged to write something at least three or four times a week and feel guilty when they don’t. (You must have seen hundreds of instances where bloggers apologise for not having updated for ages, as if they were apologising to an employer for not finishing a project on time.)

It’s also very much a way of life for bloggers to photograph anything and everything they see when they’re out. Maybe even when they’re home.

If you asked the question, “What can’t you leave home without?”, seven out of 10 bloggers will say, “My camera.”

It’s terrifying how blogs have enslaved bloggers.

Sometimes, I just want to enjoy life as a normal human being and not have to whip out my camera at the slightest provocation.

So, sometimes, I do just that. I let my camera sit in my bag and I say to myself, “Fuck the blog,” and I continue enjoying my life.

And then I go home and I have a topic I want to blog about and I have no photos and I kick myself.

Photos are very important. Many lazy bastards go to a blog and they look at the photos and then go away without reading a thing except maybe for captions. Or they go to a blog and see that there’s a huge chunk of text and no photos and they go away without reading a thing (unless, of course, the text was about something sleazy or controversial).

Pictures are very important. Humans are visual creatures. That’s why movies are more popular than books.

Which is then very ironic that a blog touting the merits of pictures has no pictures.

But irony is good, is it not?

Nevertheless, here’s a photo to show that I haven’t grown an extra nose or wart since I last posted a photo.

I need a haircut very badly.

And I hate this picture. But I’ve learnt that sometimes my readers will love a picture I hate, or hate a picture I love.

Always useful to do some market research.