It appears my SAT Subject Test results have arrived.
My Literature score: 670
My Math I score: 640
My World History score: 730
It all seems wrong. And yet so right. I mean my math cannot beat the Chinese peeps. And well I've always had some problems remembering my Literature concepts. And to be frank, 670 is not really really that far away and bad, is it?
World History is but my only shining light, of sorts.
On a separate note, did you know there're no SAT Reasoning test slots open for the whole of this year till like... Next March or so?
I'm so screwed.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Ocean's 13
Ok so most people would come into it thinking, Hmm, another sequel, Blah Blah Blah right? Well I came into it with a very positive mindset. Its George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and of course, Ol' Matty Damon, who can't seem to go wrong these days.
First, a quick summary. Danny Ocean's (Clooney) pal, Ruben , gets screwed over by an evil SoB named Willy Bank. Yes. Willy. Bank. Sounds like a ED solving solution, but anyway, naturally revenge is on the books for our favourite anti-heroes, and the leaders of this plot, Ocean and Rusty (Pitt), pull the gang together for one mega heist: To divest Mr Bank of the millions taken in at his new er thingy shaped casino. Mr Bank and his... deprived PA Abigail Sponder are powerless to stop Danny and the gang, and the only thing we as an audience miss, is the explosive delights of Ms Julia Roberts' Smile.
Ok, so review.
The movie is wonderful, a brilliantly conceived caper, with plenty of comic moments, well timed rejoinders, ill conceived madcap obstacles, and of course who can forget the tunnel digger from the French side of the Chunnel. The double entendres are not missing from this episode of Ocean's adventures, and of course the sartorial delights that have been present since the very first movie are still alive and kicking. Danny Ocean even found time to poke fun at Mr. Pitt's abundance of kids! There're no lack of plot twists here, and certainly no lack of energy from the aging cast. The movie is a success simply because it doesn't need to try too hard. It works, everything falling into place easily without too much coaxing of your tired brain.
One strange thing I observed in the theatre though, was that me and my friend, I'll call him D, were probably the only ones really laughing in the whole theatre. I heard Chuckles, I heard Whispers, (probably questioning my sanity) but no outright guffaws. How bizarre, or is it just me? Ah well. I enjoyed it, and if you're up for some light entertainment disguised in a sophisticated veneer of slick clothes, effective nasal aphrodisiacs, and witty repartee, you'll definitely enjoy it too. If not, just go catch Shrek 3. I'm sure your 8 year old cousin and you'll have something to talk about then.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Bus Ride Part 2
My iPod sings to me,
Its white façade disguising something truly beautiful,
Years of music,
House sitting peaceably next to the Rocket Man,
Kylie Minogue next to Beethoven,
I’m sure he’d have liked that.
Oh,
A lady steps into the seat next to me,
Hm, red shirt,
I’m wearing blue today…
She looks bored, then again I’m typing poetry next to her,
Nothing more boring than a person who thinks he has something to prove,
Working on the bus,
Tsk, insane little Adidas wearing boy.
He’s hugging her close,
And she’s typing a message out,
Furiously like a good Singaporean girl,
Must be to her mom,
I’m not coming home Ma,
Need to go study with Jonas.
He’s also listening to his iPod, older model though,
Wearing red too, and slightly chubby like me,
And a bit of a air-guitarist as well. Heheh. Aren’t we all,
Oo, the red lady next to me has started humming.
Half the bus is sleeping on this Sunday afternoon,
How nice though, a siesta on the bus.
I mean as if the bumping wasn’t pleasant enough,
You have snores to provide a delightful leitmotif.
I wonder about Mr Kang,
Is he feeling any better,
Will call him later, and ask.
Oh god, a boy is jumping around,
MOM, SIT HIM DOWN,
If he dies and you complain to the bus company,
I’ll testify on behalf of the bus company,
That YOU didn’t sit his ass down.
I want to buy Guitar Hero 2 for the 360.
Mmmm, the bread smell is delish…
Oh crap bus stop coming. TTYL zOMGs WtFBBQ!
Its white façade disguising something truly beautiful,
Years of music,
House sitting peaceably next to the Rocket Man,
Kylie Minogue next to Beethoven,
I’m sure he’d have liked that.
Oh,
A lady steps into the seat next to me,
Hm, red shirt,
I’m wearing blue today…
She looks bored, then again I’m typing poetry next to her,
Nothing more boring than a person who thinks he has something to prove,
Working on the bus,
Tsk, insane little Adidas wearing boy.
He’s hugging her close,
And she’s typing a message out,
Furiously like a good Singaporean girl,
Must be to her mom,
I’m not coming home Ma,
Need to go study with Jonas.
He’s also listening to his iPod, older model though,
Wearing red too, and slightly chubby like me,
And a bit of a air-guitarist as well. Heheh. Aren’t we all,
Oo, the red lady next to me has started humming.
Half the bus is sleeping on this Sunday afternoon,
How nice though, a siesta on the bus.
I mean as if the bumping wasn’t pleasant enough,
You have snores to provide a delightful leitmotif.
I wonder about Mr Kang,
Is he feeling any better,
Will call him later, and ask.
Oh god, a boy is jumping around,
MOM, SIT HIM DOWN,
If he dies and you complain to the bus company,
I’ll testify on behalf of the bus company,
That YOU didn’t sit his ass down.
I want to buy Guitar Hero 2 for the 360.
Mmmm, the bread smell is delish…
Oh crap bus stop coming. TTYL zOMGs WtFBBQ!
Bus Ride Part 1
The faux graffiti that gave it a look of urbanism,
The square buildings with an unnatural amount of portals
Leading out to certainity,
The common average teenager,
Absolutely sure of the belief,
The belief that they were individual,
That they weren’t part of another mass,
The same everywheres,
The same angers, the same fear, the same destructions,
Too much drink? Too much belief,
In the true individual,
When all you are is another clone,
Manufactured by MTV, designed by Apple,
Bought by you.
The sheer belief, the faith in the spirit of the self,
How sad,
A higher power would’ve scoffed at them,
And extended a hand, a hand to relieve them,
Give them a reason, give them a simple truth,
Anything to take away their ennui.
Mr. Hippie, when all you really are,
Another product of misguided idiocy,
Masquerading as a higher intelligence,
Laziness is not a way to lead your life,
The state cannot provide for those,
Who should be providing for themselves.
Take a look at the smiles,
They are particularly truthful,
Coming from babies, they hide nothing,
Coming from the teenagers, they tell of their fears, their angst, their sexual frustrations,
Coming from adults, they tell you the truth:
How rare it is to actually find the truth.
I prefer a sack of loaves to tell my story,
The sack of loaves,
Sitting next to me,
Giving off a scent of sambal,
Heh, I bet He didn’t get it that good,
And I am grateful for living in a lack of lacking.
I should stop wanting so much,
For it obscures the fact that I have more than enough,
And find little else wanting.
Alone.
The square buildings with an unnatural amount of portals
Leading out to certainity,
The common average teenager,
Absolutely sure of the belief,
The belief that they were individual,
That they weren’t part of another mass,
The same everywheres,
The same angers, the same fear, the same destructions,
Too much drink? Too much belief,
In the true individual,
When all you are is another clone,
Manufactured by MTV, designed by Apple,
Bought by you.
The sheer belief, the faith in the spirit of the self,
How sad,
A higher power would’ve scoffed at them,
And extended a hand, a hand to relieve them,
Give them a reason, give them a simple truth,
Anything to take away their ennui.
Mr. Hippie, when all you really are,
Another product of misguided idiocy,
Masquerading as a higher intelligence,
Laziness is not a way to lead your life,
The state cannot provide for those,
Who should be providing for themselves.
Take a look at the smiles,
They are particularly truthful,
Coming from babies, they hide nothing,
Coming from the teenagers, they tell of their fears, their angst, their sexual frustrations,
Coming from adults, they tell you the truth:
How rare it is to actually find the truth.
I prefer a sack of loaves to tell my story,
The sack of loaves,
Sitting next to me,
Giving off a scent of sambal,
Heh, I bet He didn’t get it that good,
And I am grateful for living in a lack of lacking.
I should stop wanting so much,
For it obscures the fact that I have more than enough,
And find little else wanting.
Alone.
Monday, June 11, 2007
The Slow Dances
Convulsions,
Developments that he never,
anticipated,
cheggit,
OoooO
She thought about how it might have been,
and he wondered how it must have been,
she spent her days travelling,
he wished he could remember his travails,
she understood,
he defenestrated all notions of even comprehending.
The smooth jazz trumpet,
gave his heart a fillip,
OoooO
That's the way he liked to be touched,
OoooO
Her every dance made him fantacise,
And there were places
places that he let his eyes roam to,
that wouldn't have been
allowed in public places,
his mind wondered,
his soul a mess of desiry thirst,
tonight he would drink from the cup,
of lonely self-satisfaction.
The CRASHING, SCREAMING halt,
that brought him to his senses,
and awakened him to the light of,
Manly rationality,
the awareness that
it was a sweet, sober and yet melancholic
finish
like Valrhona. It left no trace of an aftertaste,
just the bittersweet memory.
He stood,
and raised his appendages,
and applauded,
the woman who brought to life all the,
pains, all the furies, the malcontents, the
described and impossible.
He knew it was time to go,
and yet he lingered,
his eyes straying,
one last time to
the slow dance,
record.
Developments that he never,
anticipated,
cheggit,
OoooO
She thought about how it might have been,
and he wondered how it must have been,
she spent her days travelling,
he wished he could remember his travails,
she understood,
he defenestrated all notions of even comprehending.
The smooth jazz trumpet,
gave his heart a fillip,
OoooO
That's the way he liked to be touched,
OoooO
Her every dance made him fantacise,
And there were places
places that he let his eyes roam to,
that wouldn't have been
allowed in public places,
his mind wondered,
his soul a mess of desiry thirst,
tonight he would drink from the cup,
of lonely self-satisfaction.
The CRASHING, SCREAMING halt,
that brought him to his senses,
and awakened him to the light of,
Manly rationality,
the awareness that
it was a sweet, sober and yet melancholic
finish
like Valrhona. It left no trace of an aftertaste,
just the bittersweet memory.
He stood,
and raised his appendages,
and applauded,
the woman who brought to life all the,
pains, all the furies, the malcontents, the
described and impossible.
He knew it was time to go,
and yet he lingered,
his eyes straying,
one last time to
the slow dance,
record.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
