Long time no see, understandably so, given my last post was basically a giant exhaustive rant about Ready Player One and all things wrong with the movie industry. I’ve been recuperating since last, but I’ve got a new one for you today.

April has basically flown by, leaving me with little to be desired from May. It’s a dreaded month, hay fever and attack-of-the-sinuses aside, because of the impending doom that comes with hitting the Homerun of turning twenty-something (yet again).

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I am a major MAJOR Ernest Cline fan, especially when it comes to his hit novel, Ready Player One. It was recommended to me by Aaron – a man who has never voluntarily picked up a book in his life – yet could finish this one in a single afternoon. “Man,” I thought to myself. “This had better be good.”

As a result of my insane vertigo, I opted for Audible’s narration of the hardback instead, featuring Will Wheaton, aka. everyone’s favourite nemesis on The Big Bang Theory. Thanks to Wheaton’s incredible articulation and zealous narration skills, I have listened to Ready Player One at least 25 times from cover to cover, and I have yet to be disappointed.

That is, until Steven Spielberg’s film version of Ready Player One hit theatres this March. 

He’s my dog. I liked Neil Gaiman’s 1999 short story so much that I decided to bequeath it to my 8-year old (at the time, 5-month old) Shih-Tzu-Pekingese cross-breed. Behold, my dog, Quinn.

Now I’m not sure if you know this about Shih-Tzus, or much about Pekingese dogs, but they are incredibly lazy. They like to eat, sleep, and have their bellies rubbed. They don’t particularly fancy taking walks, baths, or much else. They’re also not affectionate creatures, ultimately defeating the purpose of having a dog as a pet in the first place.

I might as well have gotten a goldfish.

Ze: One refers to a person with ze typically (a) when their gender is unknown, and one wishes to avoid assuming their gender, or (b) when they are neither male nor female in gender, making he and she (and also either/or terms like s/he or (s)he) inappropriate and potentially hurtful.

I had a friend back in Secondary school who found a scrap bit of paper in the classroom bin. It dictated a conversation between two unknown individuals – what with the famed 00s’ coloured gel inks – with a special shoutout to “Tish the class b*tch”, who had the “gall to refer to herself as the future Miss Universe.” 

Yes, this really happened. But I was 14 and ambitious, pre-realisation of my passion of being a writer, and not just a pretty face.

Now I’m not sure if you know this, but I love packing. Packing, organising, rearranging, cleaning, moving bits and bobs around and around; basically anything that falls into the ‘making something neat’ category is the shortcake to my jam. The Calvin to my Hobbes. The Adagio to my Secret Garden.

Call me OCD if you will, but I much rather prefer the term ‘easily bored’.

Sexism is a f**king problem. Think of this situation as having a giant pink elephant standing in the middle of the room. Everyone notices its presence, and how ridiculous it looks just rooted there, furiously trumpeting its long pink trunk and stomping its salmon feet.

Yet the world merely tiptoes around the pink elephant without bother, putting up with this absurdity because they either fear the ridicule in being the sole lunatic who pointed the elephant out, or the crippling dread of being alone (think herd mentality).

It’s one of those situations where your mother doesn’t – and simply can’t – prepare you for in life. I mean, how would you prepare your 10-year old daughter for the overwhelming tsunami of unwelcome sexual references, and uncalled for remarks on her dressing/makeup/gait/hairstyle/speech/lunch preferences etc.?

My family has always been big-boned. And you know what they say about children being at least 1.5 times of a better version of their parents – Trust me, that doesn’t just apply to smarts. In the case of my sister and I, we got the 1.5x heavier-taller-bigger-muscular combo from our parents – who were already considered pretty tall for Asian people.

As a result, it was year after year of bullying, taunting and ‘big’ jokes from not only cruel classmates or tactless friends but also some of our closest relatives – of whom their children came out tiny enough to make Jyoti Amge proud. (Did anyone else love her in American Horror Story?)

Seriously, if I hadn’t found writing, I would’ve probably needed therapy.