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).
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.
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’.
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.
Note: bae (beɪ/) – a person’s boyfriend or girlfriend (often as a form of address).
Capitalising on the Chinese New Year long weekend holiday and escaping to Taipei probably wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve made. After all, they are a country that celebrates Chinese New Year. As a result, this translated into jam-packed streets and suffocating train rides. Genius, Tish.
Disclaimer: Long, face-palming Taipei recount up ahead. Proceed at own
I was minding my own business one fine weekend, relishing in the bliss that accompanies having one’s squat rack all to oneself, and not needing to share with sweaty know-it-alls who ogle at your butt while ‘resting’ (That is, if you consider those 5-minute intervals ‘resting’).