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.
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.
My sister, who so stubbornly insisted on travelling 13’000 kilometres away from her parents (note: Asian parents) to land herself in the middle of a freezing Vancouver winter, is now in a rut.
Why? Because she’s a nice person, and made too many friends (for her own good).
One is too many, in my opinion.
For years I never understood this statement. Even when I was back in school, I would proclaim to my weary parents that I, and I alone, would embark on the magnificent one-man-project-work-show.
I was arrogant enough – even when I was 7 and tiny – to somehow know that my groupmates would screw up the project work and I’d have to redo it.
I do not have photos of me before the age of 19. Thanks, hard drives.
Having flitted from external hard drive to hard drive throughout my teenage years – (Cloud wasn’t a big thing back then) all of which ended in broken whirring messes, leaving me penniless and laden with stress-induced migraines – I finally conceded that these supposed storage ‘life-savers’ and I were never meant to be.
I was in my Grabhitch this morning, making absolutely no attempt to converse with my regular driver. He’s nice enough and has endured my lateness on more than one occasion. Still, I didn’t have the patience to make conversation at 8 in the morning, especially when he was one who favoured monosyllabic replies.
I’m not level-Melvin Udall yet; I don’t take pleasure in flicking the light switch on and off five times before entering any room, or feel the need to bin a bar of soap after each use – That’s OCD, not habit. Or as we Singaporeans comically imitate the Thai: Same same, but different.
The need to abide by a routine – be it with the help from planners, task apps or lists galore (I’ve done it all) – has become a chronic disability, crippling my ability to spontaneously ‘enjoy life’. Or as I like to call it: Being unprepared.