7/16

Today I handed in the visa application to those grim faceted staffs at the German Center, and exchanged a few superficial words with my would-be classmates - 5 of them girls, who talk a lot, and the other boy, who barely talks. Among them, a fully Asian, Han Chinese girl with make-up so thick, presumably in the 0.2mm - 0.3mm range, appeared in front of me like a Caucasian with level 3 chloroazotic acid burnt face. What would be, then, of my 3-year undergraduate study in Germany? Would it be like it was boasted on the forum when I deliberately searched for it, that it has better equipment, Mbps Internet in every dorm room, that the students study there are academic and elaborate on issues of a decent person's interest. For as far as I can see, what I found are a bunch of paper tigers unusually communicative and yet and at the same time reserved about each other - hey, I'm an international kind of guy, I'm not able to speak my hometown dialect, I went to New Mexico for high school, and look at you and you and you and you, how debase you dress code is, how vagabond your faith is. And I told them I have my iPhone dropped into the toilet, and we laughed for a second because it's common sense now that I should fetch a new iPhone. But nevertheless, we're the seekers, majoring in those fields with big titles - Integrated Social Sciences, Global Economics and Management, International Logistics Management and all, for not we aspire to advance the human knowledge, spread the vision of the less privileged, but a job in the middle-income-ish area, and a life that is judged by not us as successful and worthy of living. At least that's where it's going, in Germany or United States, or in China, paying big money, so we have the money to pay for other moneys, identical to those screen magnet in the metro cabin, laughing viciously about a neurotic proclaiming the establishment of a republic, and the necessity of modernization. The neurotic, unconscious of himself, have visions in his half-dream to become memorable, although his platform non-place, his audience unaffected, he's got something to be firmly believing in, while those of us laughing at him, only laugh because he's different from normal and that it would be bizarre if I don't laugh while other people do. Yeah, being different, not to become a genius or mastermind or anything close to it, but to become a neurotic sneered at by some other people who think they are normal. What would I become, my stillness on the seat can be interpreted as numbness, my eloquence of speech can be thought of as pretension, my purchase of laptop and pencil is squandering. There's no distinction between the normal and the neurotic, the only thing that separates them apart is the amount of cash you have - the son of China's richest person spent 20 RMB for an online game disc, and he ended up getting it for free and delivered by 8 beautiful girls lined up around him. While I, exploit the money from my father's labor, my mom's gullibility, and spend it with a secret guilt for a study material I'm supposed to have, eventually have to deal with postage delays, screen defects and attitudes. Hahaha, the laughter of the shadowy person inside my brain sounds just like the laughter of the neurotic person on the metro - he dared to let it out, and I was the otherwise.

7/4

While playing Battlefield 4 in one of those rare occasions when I don't use the cheat software from Aimjunkies that costs me 15 dollars for one month, I met with one guy with disability in a No-Kill server where people taking the flags without killing each other for the experience point. That's the first time I realized that I'm one of the people - save me a soul who gazes upon the world in a first-person view, save him, or they a game character to be hit in the head or to be laughed at for being pathetic in real life. And then, people die - which is equally not aware of before the things that happened to my grandmother. On her habitual stroll from the Mahjong room, I met with her, accusing her for using cigarettes, bantering while we don't agree with each other we still get along in a strange way, because she's a worn-out person who started working since 8 years of old, and I'm a worn-out person for having to work in a future date. And then she's hospitalized, the pad placed in front of her vagina went from non-existent to drapery to synthetic to non-existent, a cycle everyone knows is inevitable but always neglected. Will I, for one day, become like her? Having to be concerned with death, or having lost the ability to do that? If I do fear the ultimate doom, is it me, at that moment who fear, or is it him, who shares a body with me, to do so?

In dream I'm asked to reinstall 3 operating systems in a day, and I promised that I'll be doing that in the afternoon next day, and I slept over; In reality I'm asked to reinstall none, and I just wake up late. In dream I can talk with beautiful girls in a mannered, tedious way; in reality I don't talk to girls. What I see in dream as liberating seemed less so in reality, what I deem constraining in reality seemed less so in dream. My heart is pumping biologically - people don't usually pay attention to their heart at such a high frequency - they simply think of themselves as unbreakable - and indeed they seem so. And I, always inundated by the prospect of having a cardiac arrest or something minor and more sudden, do not consider myself unbreakable, and indeed, do not seem so. God does not exist at all or exists, just feels too stupid to mind human's business, and humanity, while probable, is just a more advanced variation of the traits of all other animals; and law, is just a tool to ensure human not to interfere with one another and hardly provides an answer to what is true and what is meaningful. All those things I consider myself scientifically believe in either do not exist, or are useless, and my faith, simply like the faith of the mosquito, convinced of itself that it's not going to be killed by me, and then being killed by me, is a slightly more advanced variation of futility and aimlessness.

But I'm still going to sleep, still playing Battlefield 4 tomorrow morning, still actively avoiding talking about the possibility of dying in sleep, and still going to sleep tomorrow - there might be other activities like checking the emails, eating, and defecating entwined in, but overall a replicate of my past with more inconspicuously modified replicates in the future. Time makes the replicate completely different from the original, and I, stuck chronically by the urge to decide between the two egos, gradually masturbate and stop masturbate and unwilling to walk and unable to walk and die. Yeah, Battlefield 4, yeah, foods and shits, yeah money with which I bought and will buy things that at first interest me and cease to once I possessed them, fuck it!
-

Yesterday was the second time I failed to say goodbye to my father - it seems that as the date of departure is approaching, his will of manipulate my deed has so increased exponentially - he had acted otherwise for the past 2 decades. I have finally reached the conclusion that human attachment is sometimes unseverable, it might evolve into the scenes depicted in those semi-literary, semi-pretentious movies whose intention is to make people cry, and those of a bogus, self-deemed ultimate understanding of the human life's worth - oh, for all the years spent seeking for happiness, for all the money I use to entertain myself, the true answer has always lied beside me - then there will be elaboration on essentially tedious things like a book, or a no-longer-beautiful or was-never-beautiful wife. This sort of plots have always nauseated me, like those old ladies shaking their butts convinced that they represent how life is supposed to be, and irritate everyone in the surroundings with a rare and bizarre common sense.
-

In the immediate aftermath of my most recent masturbation, I thought that I should write something. And during, I was watching the quivering legs of the female and her fauvist moan - with all her sensory nerves excited I secretly asked myself, oh this is not human, this is not. While I have, for quite a few months now detested the idea of having to need another body to help relieve some part of me, I haven't yet corporeally done that. This inability represents merely a tiny portion of what I consider the grand helplessness of a human soul - for being existent at first and then die, leaving behind an ongoing online game profile, and then never getting the chance of switching to a new one - this is disheartening.
-

I always loathe the idea of playing the multiplayer part of a game. Sometimes it's because I don't want to get involved with people, and the hideous sense of being killed while reluctant, but more it's because I don't have the confidence in excelling in it, I might get bullied, mentally raped, in a less-than-serious but nevertheless real sense. And when I do, I use cheat softwares like Hags Club and Aim Junkies and Sycore - for one online game in which I didn't use any digital support is the Alliance of Valiant Arms, in which I carefully, with a sniper rifle at the very depth of the base, reached a kill/death ratio of more than 6 - I was accused of using hacks. There's no difference between my skill and how good I seem to be after using a cheating software, and the later give me much more leisure and achievement than the former, why wouldn't I bother use it? Like the Canadian friend I made who played flag-running, non-killing server for straight 20 hours and had avatar that contains the words "YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK", all the game, all the impulse of playing a game, originate from vanity, however laughably unreal, time-wasting, egocentric it is. A millionaire or any successful businessperson won't devote their time in tedious things like this, they would rather wearing 5 bucks T-shirt, using Nokia dumb phone and investing some big money in the field that doesn't actually interest them. I have failed to notice the difference no matter how the society tells me otherwise. I would be happy to consider moving to Canada and be a permanent resident there, but the Canadian guy I know play the same game as I do, for conspicuously longer, he's more bored than I am. I can always have some writing on the blog which I changed the address from billie.co to blog.billie.co to make space for my newly established email address mail@billie.co, just so other people won't be able to navigate to my blog that easy, on the other hand, I enjoyed sharing some of those clips I've written and felt proud of. Most of the people don't have the privilege of doing so - they have the habitual lifestyle of doing regular things and being inculcated by television at a fixed time, and although they are happy, they are happy indeed. There will be some more acrimonious comment on the last sentence like they're not intelligent, they're walking animals rather than living human, but there's nothing superior to be a living human than be a walking animal - the animals live more simplistically, therefore they're living in a state in which the conditions are more in accordance with their body, whereas the living human, while contemplating themselves and their perceptions in a more complex way, is no more than someone on underwear in downtown New Delhi who dances an Indian dance before opening the air conditioner with the remote in hand - that's not the beauty of it, it's physical redundancy. But what's not redundancy?
-

Ever since the construction in front of the apartment building gradually went into a crude framework of the shopping mall vaguely visible, covered by steel pipes and green etamine to block the seeking sight from me, and to block the eagerness of those workers to be immersed and denigrated in the city, I became unable to see the street with 2 lines of loosely lit lights at night and the furniture store whose sign reads Home-like in Chinese I used to take as an eyesight test. I told my visiting father that the construction of the building, however homogeneous among the other tens of thousands of constructions in China, represents my strange and vast transformation from the high school boy who I deemed immature, to the worn-out old-time then-cynic conservative I look like right now - it witnessed everything, from my yell of desperation when I was preparing to go out of the country, to the gaze of excitement I so rarely exert on the exam result day, to the disappointment and contrite when I was universally rejected. However, the building keeps coming into being, and I keep going forward for every second of time, always suspicious if the things will turn out right, and always proven superfluous of my suspicion.

After watching the World Cup final this morning, I woke up seeing invitations from a bunch of middle school classmates whose name I have almost forgotten, for a revisit party. I don't usually go to any party, because party feels like to me, a coup of conspirators who are not lured by conspiracy but are simply bound by the immense power of their ideology. And should I enter, I enter like a bashful peasant without the sense of decency and sociability - hey guys, nice to see you - and then play with the cellphone and look out of the window as if something else is troubling me.

6/21

The background image is synced across the devices; the theme color, Google Chrome bookmarks, even my blog dashboard remains the same, although I've changed a computer, from a desktop with GTX 460 which I asked my mom to buy years ago to a Razor Blade laptop with GTX 870m I purchased on JD.com, my grandma is still lying in the hospital, barely speaking and mysteriously making everyone around her cheered up by nodding, by uttering a few syllables, and by not notifying my aunts for shitting in her pants. Gao has broken up with his girlfriend he at first so actively dismissed and then so deeply missed; my VPN connection now upgraded to OVPN-UDP to deal with increasingly strict internet censorship - the only constant seems to be myself - I'm essentially doing the same thing in different ways and on different platforms - I look up to the world like I look down on the characters I typed on the webpages, due to an exorbitantly high resolution, scaled and blurred.

Although I have observed the construction site in front of my apartment from the beginning, I hasn't yet confirmed its purpose. At one of those few occasions when I crawl down the building to catch the bus to the hospital or to my now-hospitalized grandma's house, I certainly had the chance to take a closer look at it. But I didn't, maybe because I have begun to consider the construction of whatever building a manifestation of my inner life - prospering in a planned, steady rate while maintaining its sense of dullness. The finish of a building is a purpose of the construction, the act of building is merely a strenuous and redundantly laborious way to achieve that purpose - the so called enjoyment of the process is nothing but a whirl of human emotions so useless when seen individually. The longer I contemplate my eventual perish and my wish to survive eternally, the more I feel that I'm not living for the well-being of myself, or rather, not the well-being of my consciousness, identity, but for the continuation of my gene, and the progress of human society. Deceit, kindness, persistence, objectively, is to reduce the entropy of the universe more systematically, therefore, is destruction of our unawareness. The newly purchased, 3000 dollar-ish Razor Blade is the byproduct of that destruction - I need a sleek hull, a flawless screen, and there came with it more coarse and flawed materials to be disposed for my whim.

I won 13 Gigabyte data for my iPhone just before the world cup began, and shortly after the opening ceremony I exchanged my iPhone for some 500 dollars and a Nokia dumb phone. I fetched a 2 Terabyte portable hard drive which, like the 10000 mAh battery, I would never use. And no matter how many books I loaded into my computer, how many episodes of TV shows I stored, and how fascinated I am with them, when I perform a re-installation of operating systems, the only thing I'd think of preserving is the porn movies I accumulated over the years. The inspirations in me, the keenness of my ability to replicate the exact reality have been gradually grounded. I was an ant who took a look into the sky and dared to challenge the vulture and was procedurally neglected. Now I look for a hole so desperately like a bird look for a tree.
-

A bright spot appeared in the lower part of my laptop screen - a LCD diffusion layer error as inconspicuous as it is mind boggling. I, incredulous of its imminent dysfunction, and it, unaware of mine, gaze through each other, laughing.

I have always told classmates, friends, all of those people who are close but not close enough to have me expose myself, of a fictional version of my father, that he moved out of the country during Cultural Revolution an returned home a successful business person. While in reality, he's one of the participators of that political movement, and has only gone abroad once, to visit clothes factories in Japan, a trip that he disliked till this day to assert himself. I could not explain my tendency to live in lies, and then when I told other people of the truth, the result reminds me that, well, I'm just a lame write who expects to materialize his delusion.

I've never had a girlfriend before. I was disgusted with the idea of having to sustain in an intimate relationship with a female. When the first female appear during my sexual renaissance, and was then obsessed with the likelihood of a close and thorough exploration of female structure, and when I did, I was again disappointed by the magnificence of its involuntariness and simplicity. She might moan, I might penetrate a squeezed, dark red whole with more energy and frequency, but at the meantime, I dismiss myself of being possessed by primitive, animalistic neurochemicals, to assert myself. Everyone now in their sleep is picking up MP7s and firing at zombies and bosses and travel to the edge of the universe just to visit an ice cream restaurant, and when they wake up the next day morning, they get dressed up, ensure that they're agreeable and not different from anyone else, and board on buses, bicycles, cars, plug in earphones connected with their electronic device strivingly purchased, and go to a place to do something that a machine some day in the future will do, and leave at an appointed time, reverse the same route they came, and turn in to the same bed they turn out. "The world is so boring." and immediately adjacent to the uttering of that sentence, myriad molecules, atoms, particles fiendishly collided with each other, obeying the laws of 2,000,000,000-body problem - yes, indeed, boring.

My sperm is drooping, somewhere out there, in the vagina of my potential girlfriend, cervical liquid is drooping - none of us realize it, we're preparing for reproduction - we're preparing for death.
-

My grandmother will be allowed to get out of the hospital soon; I'm gradually getting accustomed to the LCD diffusion layer problem; I've reinstalled the operating system 3 times just to get the Optimus and illegal Office 2013 activation work - these are the only noteworthy things that have happened to me in these days. I have lost the ability to imagine what the colorful, enjoyable life one might lead outside of the apartment. I have even lost my interest in killing mosquitoes, with all of those battles I fought no different from an episode from the Grand Campaign of the Total War series and from the dusk of high school entrance examination my teacher told me all that matters, all could matter is the college entrance examination three years later which I have quit. One year ago it is insensible for me to imagine that I would be truly going out the country, or own a Razor Blade I so desperately adored and so incapable of affording. But just when all of these slide into reality, I'm, as well, automatically upgraded unto a higher level of desire and incapability. Not only that, but also I have begun to despise myself in the past for being parsimonious, naive, and awkward, as is evidenced by my attitude reviewing the emails sent to my brothers and an anonymous guy who claimed he's dying and he'd like to offer me 100 million dollar just because we believe in Jesus - I don't believe in Jesus - he didn't give me that money - I don't believe in Jesus. It's either my atheism or he's a fraud. Within all of these nonsensical, illogical crap, I cannot elaborate on anything without the help of imagination - and I hate imagination, because none of my imaginations seem to have the possibility to materialize - I don't like that.

6/6

I'm not good at writing about real, concrete things, because it stems from an urge to describe something, and in the face of such acute unfeeling, I hardly have an urge. What drove me, when I opened the computer, to type in my blog address into the Internet Explorer I don't know. It's just a subliminal impulse, an instinct, to put something on the page. I view it as an opportunity, an occasion I should grasp - my grandmother has a stroke, a cerebral infarction so severe that she's been in the emergency room for over a day and a half. Surprisingly, I'm not sad, or involved with anything negative - I'm just an observer, of her feeling so unknowingly painful, and of her innocent, colorless eyes gazing through me - I even took the leisure to kill 2 mosquitoes and play something Virtua Tennis and Leo's Fortune on my iPhone. I've certainly witnessed death. When I was 4 and my grandfather died, I said to him, why're you still around here; and when I was 14, and another of my grandfather died, I cried. Now, it's her turn, so unacceptably natural, even liberating as a wife finally finding out her husband cheating, and a soldier getting hit by a bullet. I pretend to care, and I'm convinced that my aunt has the same pretense as I do - when she's down, we sent her to the hospital and pay the fees, and in the hospital, we change the diapers, monitor the heart rate for her. But deep beneath this solicitude, there's indifference and chuckling that oh, this is not me, and this will never be me. My grandma gave me 5000 yuan for my studies abroad when she was still conscious weeks back, which presumably I have written about, 5000 yuan from her hard labor for the factories when she was 6. She's illiterate - there's no such thing as a word processor in her brain, but when she talked about her youth, the times when cannibalism and political deceit are rampant, an enthusiasm rarely seen in the eyes of an elder emerges - she was in northern Jiangsu when she started working, and she spent the rest of her life speaking in northern Jiangsu dialect to everyone coming outside of the Wuxi city - it's evident that the fact is not, and she's aware of it, but she persisted, as determined as an office worker seeking for promotion and a student seeking for acceptance - it's her creed, her mode of life, as trivial and pathetic as it virtually is, she's not inferior or superior to the rest of human beings. She smokes, coughs, urinates; she has adored, loved, suffered, copulated before; she will ruminate, memorize, and then, eventually, perish - that's the process of living, or dying, what's in between are irrelevant and doomed to be forgotten - she's enjoyed this process; she's got kid and completed her task as a creature. She doesn't read Chinese, not to mention English, but she lives. And I, who may decry, grunt, complain, masturbate, am never as alive. Therefore I envy her, even though she's probably never waking up again.


I went back home at 9:39 PM. That means I missed the last bus, so as usual I walked home, singing Wake Me Up When September Ends, 21 Guns, Good Riddance, 風の日 and 高架線 repeatedly like I did departing from the snooker room promising my classmate we'll meet again and have never done so since then, and was run over by the exact same haze. Life's is continuing outside, whether I'm happy or not, contemptuous or not, it's not changing. Someone just got married, someone just had their child, someone's grandmother as well had a stroke and stayed in the emergency room, some naïve grandchild of her sits in front of the computer writing about the same event, in English, Arabic, Korean, Russian, Hindu while their neighbors' asleep, for God's sake.

5/29

Looking how it's getting funny, as I stand by the window gazing outward, the twin of dysprosium lamps shines like a pair of eyes glancing back at me. It used to be all arid and lifeless and hovering. There was chicken and mice and various hideous insects whistling and killing each other, now their grass razed and home burned, while I listen to particularly repetitive and monotonous piano piece by the composer Shi Jin, whose name, though clean and graceful, sounds embarrassing in another language. I'm fond of repeating songs, not that I can enjoy it or have a deeper understanding, but to numb my feelings towards the beautiful and wait for it to be utterly differed. I finished drinking 8.5L of purified, refrigerated water within a week, and as soon as it's finished I feel sinned for having bought it, like when I came home from that fakata visa application interview in Shanghai, I decided to litter and was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of shame - my mom and father were so concerned about the outcome of that interview - they have a reasonable fear that I fail to pass again, therefore it became the theme of that day. I did nothing to remember the past or to ruminate the present or to plan for the future, I was just pushed through a regular day of 2014 AD where I abruptly descended. It's impressive that the only novelty that appears in this phase of my life is a red, heavy mug that comes from three cartons of Chips Ahoy biscuits. I had been attached to a coverless teapot for a while, then the mug lessened my despicable self-aggrieving sensitivity.

It isn't June yet and I've already turned on the air conditioner. Last time I turned on the air conditioner my aunt visited and complained it was hot outside. Because I had to prepare for the SAT I didn't at all have an idea of how it felt like. Now it's been one year, with anguish and endless regret that the waiting is too long and tedious, I discovered that the time has suddenly passed. Although I'm listening to the same music, typing on the same keyboard, looking at the same computer screen, wearing the same pair of slippers, the situation has changed, therefore I'm changed. I fail to acknowledged how the hell I've gotten here, from without acnes to with acnes to without, from Cao Jie to Jiangnan You to Mengjia Gu to Yibing Yang to assorted females I am once interested in humping, from a stupid punk rock high school student who's doomed for a third rate college to a egocentric, inordinate anxiety disorder patient who had anxiety disorder precisely because he wants to rid of it. It all happened so fast and meaningless. I liked dreaming, and now I'm tired of it. I liked masturbating, and now I'm tired of it. Although I still do both, I'm doing them with an emotional detachment - because after reading all the novels of magic and science fiction and love story, I kind of regard my life and the world as a short-term hotel in which I check in and check out. Those dickheads in Nanjing and Suzhou are still immersed in their having becoming of businessman and politician. Parsimonious and double-sided as they always are, they're tolerated and flattered with otherwise non-existent manner and etiquette and considerateness.

Now there's an intimidating 90578 RMBs in my Alipay account - this might be the highest amount of money I will ever see - I feel rich even though most of that money is not mine. In actuality I can't even afford a decent laptop - but that never prevents me from finding excuses of not using it. I have mosquito bites and hair around private parts, and my eyes and hair are dull black - I can be killed like everyone else, and I will die one day involuntarily. People say that the future cannot be predicted. But I've foreseen the most ultimate result of my life. Everything in between is trivial and uncertain. May God bless me.

-

Sleeping at around 3 - 4 o'clock in the morning seems more than a habit than an occasion. I would read novels, play games, watch movies. But ever since the insolvable money problem emerged. I've run out of books to read. Even my Planetside 2 account was banned, not to mention watching pornographies and masturbating. When Xu returned home, he told me that cars and laptops are perquisites in New Zealand; one becomes unlikely to make any friend without them - that made me nervous. I might not even have money to buy new clothes or go to the hair dressers'. I'm always reluctant to play a game without hack, the only exception be a Korea game AVA, whose sniper rifle is especially suitable for me. Because I just can't stand being such a chronicle noob. I managed to appear on the top charts; I managed to maintain a kill death ratio of more than 5. It's okay in the games to do so - I don't invest money in it. But it's not so in reality. I spent the past 2 years trying to deny the legitimacy of it, by fancying prospect, and pretending to be desperately smart. And eventually my effort is proved futile - I was rejected everywhere, and those who promised to endorse my studies are only willing to loan the money now. Recalling through all the words I so painstakingly memorized, the most pertinent to describe myself might be "pathetic" and "insubordinate". I pretend to be good at writing and claim I don't write for my readers, to cover up the fact that I deserve my own failure. There are so many "SAT"s among these paragraphs, and frankly I'm now disgusted with my own rascal attitude to be obsessed with only success - not success, but a mere exception, luck. I'm turning into someone I used to disdain. So, from now on, I won't let the word "SAT" appear any more in my blog. It's time for a new life, a life without conceit and fluke, a life to be savored with diligence and true wisdom. I haven't found those qualities in me yet, but at least I'm trying to.

5/17

For the days before, I was again immersed in playing Planetside 2 - not a game I actually like, but just a choice of regaining my sense of achievement. Everything lately has seemed to be a little wild. People, at first hopeful that there will be a Harvard graduates from their family, are beginning to complain that my failure to obtain a full financial aid package was somehow an unacceptable fault - although I was given offers from colleges like Williams and Duke without an aid package - that pretty much has a lot to say about my competence. The Jacobs University did offer me some decent grant, but my family still has to pay up to 6400 euros annually. That's part of the reason my father has to work 15 hours a day in the dish washing business - although he could easily find a much better job than the one he's currently having, by returning to his Ever-Glory corporation and become a manager like he did several years ago - he said he's tired of doing clothing industry, and is interested now in labor-heavy works like express delivery and dish washing. Although I've long got accustomed to the way people around me operate their life, the repetitiveness of their unbridled daydream often astounds me - my uncle said he's capable of making several thousands of RMBs per day. He's the chef of a 70-people state owned cafeteria, and is responsible for all the kitchen supplies - as it turns out, it's one of my uncle's another elaborate brag about himself. My grandmother, always deceptively supportive of my grand ambition, hangs up on me abruptly on the phone after I declined to go eat dinner at her place. My aunt is now actively persuading my mom to work the morning part of her job for a monthly 1250 RMB salary, so she can use the less stressful evening part to sleep and watch movies on her MP4. I suddenly understand why my siblings in Suzhou and Nanjing would discriminate against us - we have practically zero ability to grab an opportunity. Although huge wealth, some 1 billion RMB, and mansion and Cadillac cars were all readily available simply by saying yes; the 1 million at the beginning of the 1990s were lost in my uncle's gamble. What prospect, what hope do they have if chances evaded, talent squandered in dish washing and vegetable vendor business. Yet everyone all appears to have great conviction on whatever they're doing is right, and someday because of their diligence and perseverance, they'll be recognized as successful - no one can become successful by raising cocks and ducks at the backyard at their country house, without proper management, with bare hands. And I, who's been intending to escape all of these clusterfuck, and learning real knowledge of how to make good use of the social resources, am secretly and blatantly cursed of being ignorant.

When I talk to friends on the internet, I told them that my father is a successful business man who runs across the globe for meetings and negotiations, seldom stays at home and never questions what his son is doing. But in fact, he runs across the Wuxi city for cheap, remnant vegetables and sell them to restaurants for twice the price, always stays at home in the same bedroom he shared with my grandma, and deems me some sort of superior being and therefore possesses the innate tendency to look down upon him - yes, I am doing that precisely because he thinks everyone who has a better orientation of life is snobbish - "It's all the communists' fault, and people are giving me money I don't deserve (for helping them start multi-million companies)." My father always says this to console me, and his speech sounds so genuine, and more importantly, he always consider himself a successful person, in every aspect, I have naively believed him. That's where all the nonsense arises. Now, I'm once again, tired of maintaining the laughable balance between two mutually-suspicious group, feigning the amicability that's was actually never there, and pretending to care about their repellent ideology, I'm going to get the fuck out of here, Germany, Singapore, whatever, and when I'm out, I'll just work the ass off for my own life and future.

5/7

I really don't know what my attitudes should be, towards the Jacobs University - a place that has been struggling with financial difficulties and name recognition since its founding in 1999. Frankly, the moment I received the admission letter at the first week of February, my excitement was not about the news itself, but after years' of anonymity, I finally had a definitive, third-party answer to affirm that I'm, indeed, worthy of serious consideration. And then there's the consecutive rejections kindly articulated I obtained from the United States. Up till this moment, after a multitude of self-consolation, ego boost, prospect for the wonderful life in German and Europe, I still haven't yet really accepted the fact that all of those I adored or dismissed have closed their doors for me. My sister presumed it's my arrogance, and failure to write school-specific personal essays that caused the consequence; my parents know nothing and deem Germany a superior choice to America; my brother, who hasn't sent me anything in months, remains reticent to this day to avoid the awkwardness of having participated in my grand declaration of a future in Harvard, or at least in Princeton. Now it all feels like a joke as preposterous as Gavin Wince's Existics. I've heard people saying, in the Japanese anime Gintama, which I picked up to learn to deal with life after disillusion, that those who are successful in the video games are almost always appear vice versa in reality - as a result, I became obsessed with purchasing iOS apps and a game called 8 Ball Pool - I need to retrieve my confidence. But still, my impatience in playing and conceit in gambling made my winning rate lower than 50%, and I searched on the SiNfuL iPhone forum desperately for a hack. That's the paradigm of my current life, and I'm so naive that I insist no matter what the degree to which I'd denigrated, I still want my future to remember the past, for what purpose I don't know. Shame? Not likely. Reminiscence? Even less so. I wrote blogs and tweets and even attempted to record a voice message yesterday - actually this morning because I'm now again sleeping in the morning for the silence and the solitude of not disappointing at night. It turned out I loathed the way I sound as much as I hated the way I look in photographs. I recorded a total of 5 clips and deleted them all. Worthless, burlesque, self-appointed, these are the words I use to describe the things I do.

It's really sunny now. I just pulled the curtain to the side. I remember in the first year of high school, during the break between two classes, I would like to sing "enjoy the sun, enjoy the sunshine". My classmates resting on the steps ahead me would follow "enjoy the sun, enjoy the sunshine". And together we repeated it a thousand times. The study was all about exams and preparation for exams, and it is one of the ploy I picked up to make the process seem a bit more sarcastically alive. However, the simplicity and the willpower of being entitled to genuinely smile have been lost in me. I prefer the whiteness of skin to the enjoyment of sun. To my amaze, I did not write after masturbation or intend to masturbate after writing, and I'm having so much on page. With hideous grammatical and even more hideous auto-correct spelling error that don't exist because I don't go back to it after I've finished, a bizarre sense of settlement arises. The crane rotating, the grandma who takes me to the wonton shop inexplicably expensive out in the street, the pervert father, and the jailbroken iOS 7.0.6 with various tweaks installed, and the combination of their very existence seems all so gracious and overwhelming, and the entropy slightly increased its speed of rising as a whirlwind thrilled through the mechanical mind of my brain. "Billie, you're being underestimated." And I wonder if it's better off being underestimated by myself than by a school or anyone else. As it is destined for a beauty to get old, my wisdom has ossified in the course of these months. I got rife with unjust greed and endless regret; I've begun to question my faith without the poignancy of reason, and patronize not only the minds of the evil but also those of the inferior. I constantly chastised my being with rootless and theoretical snobbishness.

I had an idea, possibly profitable but more likely to have been already thought of, and I've forgotten it. Oh, now I've recalled - shutting down the hearing sense with a switch in auditory nerve, ideally with a headband. And Google says somebody has already looked into it. Just like the idea of 3D rotational product preview, which was commercialized long ago, these strange visions always give me the hope of leading to a vast wealth. And often at this time, I get dumbfounded by the collective masterpiece of human intellect.
-

There's a saying that the real estate market is shrinking, and people like Li Ka-shing and the owner of the apartment at the third floor are seeking to cash in their asset. I've never known what an economy slowdown would feel like. Ever since I was born, China has been growing at a steady annual rate of 8-10%. However, for now, the structure of social class, the appearance of the city, and the extent to which democracy is authentic are close to being determined. And my life has barely started. Although I'm young and sexually and materially motivated, my life has barely started. And if someone intrudes my room to learn what vitality and disorientation a young person's way of life might bring, he'll definitely see the exact opposite. I'm still, like I was six months earlier, sitting in front of the computer screen and periodically refresh the NUS portal for good or bad news in the college application, while the teapot whose cover was broken when I was six and the bottles of chili and pepper powder standing in juxtaposition, and the Nike+ Fuelband I purchased at my uncle's farm three months ago have all remained in the same radius of 5 meters for as long as they've existed to me. The only thing from which I glance at the flowing of time is the construction site whose progress has accelerated - now I can see bunches of steel bars and red, floor-like material that would function as someone else's ceiling in the future, and weeks ago they were demolishing the frame they've probably, wrongfully built.

There was a draft I wrote early this morning in my iPhone but now I couldn't find it - it was about my queer denunciation of the need of having sex, and the act of continuing despite the obvious redundancy. I was always unusually sexist after masturbation, thinking the female structure pathetic and dilapidated, and the hole ostentatiously grown. But it was only because my inability to contain my own animalistic personality that I blame everything on the female. Although I understand my existence is predicated upon having sexual intercourse, my blatant refusal to do the same as my parents have done is to demonstrate my self-contrived superiority over the rest of human being, while at the same time depending my vital sign on the pumping of my heart and the boo-hoo of my urination.

I got rid of the Facebook vanity URL after transferring the username to a Page. It's literally the most valuable thing I've done today. And I updated the avatars across all my social media sites. But beyond that, the chitchat exchanged between me and Gao and Yuzi is totally unimaginative.

I don't know when this would end - it'll be so heartwarming if my trip to Germany and Singapore will bring me some content. Although the interest rate of the tuition postponement at the German university is 7.75% and the retribution to this investment is ever so uncertain, I'm still eagerly waiting, like my sister waiting for her marriage and my brother waiting for a promotion that would entitle him to work in an office.
-

I haven't felt thirst in years, I mean it literally because I always fail to relate to those moment when I'm thirsty, or hungry, or sick, or in need of anything. Those moments are only true when they happened, while other, less conspicuous ones, bore me, therefore, impress me. "I'll be eternal because I'll be remembered - I did all the work at the restaurant, though closing down, without asking for extra money, and life is all about being remembered." Said my father sitting on the chair, reversed. But the cooling down of planets and stars not only carries off the livings that cover it, but also the spiritual convictions that are once firmly believed. What is the process of life? I strive for the pursuit of success and the fulfillment of happiness, I yearn for the shadowy landscape, with roads covered with thick layer of leaves that are never walked, in the books so restlessly published, and at the meantime I demand cash, vehicle and a roof above me. Those are the grand stillness I stuff into my soul for consolation - things durable because they seem so, entertainment in the fictional world for it surprises, and settlement in the reality for it sustains, like the office people returning home from work at an evening subway, obsessed with their cellphone because the people around looking at the phone screens are so entirely despicable.

We see life at its most brutal and complex, and we simplify it with stories told by other people - equally brutal, equally complex, but alien. Life still has to move on - it might be the most universal and adamant belief in the world. Just look over there - the kids are walking to their school; the staffs are walking to their company; and the elders are walking to their park…

5/1

The night before May began, my grandmother gave me 5000 yuan to support my will-be studies abroad, although nominal, the money that comes from a lady with heart problems and a smoking history of more than 50 years still strikes me as respectable. I had, before the last day of April, gone to her place three times to help my brother install, reinstall, and activate the Windows and Office software. And while talking to her is not the main purpose, or not even a mutually intelligible one, I still enjoyed the clash between what she calls the new generation of rebellious mind, and what I call the outdated elder who plays mahjong on a daily basis.

She's got a heart disease after giving birth to her second child - the younger sister of my mom, in the 1960s, and in the course of these decades she passed out several times - thanks to the violent patting of my now dead grandfather, she came back alive. Now in her 80s, my grandmother always possesses a ring of optimism so bizarrely convincing to herself that the intimidation of death is just a part of the feast she seems to take on eternally. My brother took a picture of her when she was watching the ill-made television show in Wuxi dialect from the city channel, where numerous hosts and hostesses went out on the street to solve trivial disputes between people just that the audience can be sarcastic about them. She was smiling on that picture, exerting a sharp contrast with the wrinkles on her faces and the amorphous plaques stuck in the wall behind her. The chair, and the mahjong-table-converted dining table, likely constitute a reminder of the past from which I'm desperately trying to alter and escape, and surprisingly I'm at ease in it. When I sit in the chair unmoved from the very beginning of my childhood, eat with the chopsticks and watch the TV bought ten years ago, it all feels yesterday. Time collapsed there - I no longer feel guilt of having no career prospect, or condemn myself for the inability to improve, or anything I'm pursuing because it consider it prerequisite for my further pursuit - although I've never had an idea of what that would be any way. Looking around, my uncle just had a stroke and still can't move freely, and he wears the kind of smile uncle always should wear; my brother is close to his 30, and with the chronical glass as his emblem, and Japanese cartoon as his taste, he looks no different from who he was when in high school, singing semi-rock songs from Taiwanese pop singer Jay Chou - who I had admired under his influence; and my grandmother, not even changing the way she speaks and complains - all of these unchanging, static that even I myself, who had incurred vast overhaul of the entire life, believed for a moment that I'm still the same, non-growing child that sat in the middle of the bamboo chair, that my brother didn't at all go to high school, that my uncle still works 12 hours a day, that my grandmother still beats and defeats me. It is phantasmagoria, but it is always the phantasmagoria that is perceived beautiful, snapshot at the most memorable second, and dwelling in the corner of mind like the wine stored in pit, mostly forgotten, but when the occasion has come, attracts and intoxicates the man in search of home.

Sometimes I wonder, as a matter of fact, now I wonder, as I'm lying on the bed, appointing myself as a third rate writer, philosopher, and thinker, just what is it? The object to which the "it" refers is unknown to me, and even the thought of asking appears to be as alien. But I've started to have it - that I'm born and bound to die, that who I love and who love me perish irreversibly, that the same process replicates itself almost every moment but the world is fine and functioning? It should either be that I'm eternal or that the world should disintegrate. Yeah, such ideas are naive and they probably have been discussed extensively somewhere, sometime already, in the kind of language so profound and penetrating that I can in no way write close to it. But I still want to ask, just like I'm still reluctant to accept reality albeit that I live in it, just like the plants and insects and those of whom I know, devoted to a goal totally nihilist, graceless, and without challenge, that's how life is supposed to be lived. That is how I wanted to but have thus far failed. My body matures at 24, and my brain matures at 28. Maybe I'm too young to contemplate these things, too absurd to think of them in advance and brand it wise - live in the moment, let things happen - cheesy words, cheesy sentence, but with a touch of epiphany - all things come into existence for a reason, and often for a good reason. I will never be an observer, as I too, am thrown restlessly in the flow of nothing but the present.
-

Writing has never alleviated the intensity of my emotions, rather it enhances them.
-

Just after I finished dinner my mom made me with white gourd and bamboo roots, I discovered in the junk folder an email coming from the Jacobs University - it's finally time to apply for a German student visa. In the period of time before, I've been trying to postpone the process because I still wanted to hear from the Business Analytics of NUS I'm eager to attend. After some search on the internet, I know that the results typically come out at the middle or late May. It's rather uncertain where I'd eventually end up if by then I've put the 8000-ish euro into the Deutschland Bank.

Documents required for the visa included the graduation certificate for my elementary school, and the TOEFL transcript, which I had lost. Though I haven't figured out a convenient way to solve the problem, I have the conviction that the problem will be solved somehow while I maintain my usual procrastination. As I'm writing this, the drilling machine on the construction site has again started its rumbling. Curiously the sound isn't for building things, but rather for demolishing them. In the past few weeks the workers erected a structure whose purpose I'm unfamiliar with, and hopefully for the next few weeks they are devoted to remove it. Those irons and concrete cost money, the amount of which I can never afford, nor could the ones building it. But someone did it anyway while I stay in this usual, monochromatic room with my legs stretched out on the bed, fingers moving involuntarily on the phone screen and a dull secrecy of worrying about the place I'll go.

For tomorrow, the event of going to my grandmother's to ask my brother for the money back is scheduled. It is because yesterday he failed to appear at the snooker, where I met up with a former middle-and-high school classmates Hezhou Wang. And the two of us planned to play basketball at the Sports Center at the other side of the city - mysteriously the trip collapsed and none of us cared.

-

It astounds me how great my obsession with the length of an article is - though arbitrarily stipulated. I've always abided by the rule that I won't write a post shorter than a pageful of words, instead I'll use dash at the end of the last post. Now it's 3:14 in the morning of May, 6. In the days behind, I've written and deleted 4 paragraphs of writing, deprecated multiple times my laughable attempt to maintain a blog, which always seems to have a unique exclusivity in its name, and watched half of an episode of A Bite of China. After acknowledging the real possibility of ending up at a private university in Bremen, Germany, I searched desperately, on the CUUS for positive details about the school, and the community I'm about to be a part of. I understand, all of those who bother to post a review of their school on the internet are at least somewhat affectionate about it. It's just that after all the rejections, the grandeur epiphany of having been in chronicle delusion, while consciously accepted, has overwhelmed me in a much subtler way - the fictional world in which I had pictured myself might never exist, that all my self-recognition and dismissive attitude towards what I consider innately inferior were just a shallow rejection in the face of indubitable reality. I began to envy the life of my father, penniless but reeking a firm belief of having been successful, albeit by his  own term, that the so called success is just an external characterization of someone's personal fulfillment; its appeal comes not from what one feels or has done, but from how the world has seen it. Yet I'm too timid to live self-immersively. I don't even know what to pray from God, because I don't know what I want. Happiness? I've long gotten one and equally long chosen to disregard it. Dream? I had it, and like everyone else, have failed to materialize it. Death? I've thought of it, trying desperately to avoid it. Education? Love? It seems my very existence, the accomplishment of being alive while hordes of much greater people have deceased, is the only fortune I shall treasure.

4/27

Since I was told that going out and talking to people will make life feel interesting, I went to my grandma's today - nobody there expects me to go except my father. It was an involuntary decision. I didn't plan to go either. I grabbed the bus card and waited at the stop for a few minutes and actually saw the girl I used to see when I was in middle school. I hedged, failing to find anywhere applicable for my taste, and turned back towards my grandma's. My niece, likely 14 years old - she might have even got her period, learned to shun eye contacts from males and laughed without pulchritude. Her mom, on the rail to 40, began to notice the everlasting stain on her face. Beneath the exorbitantly pasty skin of her hands, there's a flowing helplessness of having to age, and having to fight against it. My new nephew whose name I was told and have then forgotten, cries and seldom laughs. He's the newborn but it seems he's been chronically troubled with pain so superficially fierce. My grandma, who stays by him tickling, wears a smile on her face as if the waving of a tiny arm is the most intriguing feat. She's witnessed so many things, so many years, so much anguish that she smiles; he's witnessed nothing, and he cries. Human is a species for mutual admiration, albeit begrudging and often hypocritical, the sense of longing for the unpossessed persists in a corner of soul.

A prolonged period of time was spent discussing about money. It's curious that those who are reluctant to purchase have the willpower to accumulate things only useful in purchase. There was a silent, politeness-rife war between my aunt and uncle. My sister just bought an electric bike, which looks the same to other 2 electric bikes parked in front of the apartment building. Happiness, once betrayed unintentionally, cannot be fake. And their elatedness of owning a new electric bike is genuine. Labor is exchanged for money, while money is exchanged for labor; and I observe it. Aunt complained how diluted relationships can turn into once money is made and success is achieved, and exemplified with the peculiar entanglement of such and such acquaintance, such and such neighbor. She spent a life's worth to buy an automobile, by doing which she thinks people will cease discriminating her; and my uncle rode to faraway place for a jar of seasoning at 200 bucks discount. I confided that wife is only useful in case of medical emergency. And polite people aren't necessarily friendly.

I was lying on the bed writing, and discovered it was too ghastly an environment, and shifted to the rest room. But when I put my arse on the sheet-covered ring of toilet, a distaste for my continuation in the dearth of inspiration and material arises. I always use the rest room as a place for thinking, and 80% of my English is fluented here. I must admit I'm a plain, thoughtless man - anything above it is an act of self-applauding.

I'm tired, and today is squandered. Nonetheless I've written something that exists.

-

I'm accustomed to it - accusing, behind the back or with a sarcastic undertone self-supposedly undetectable. My gibberish thought is sometimes too perplexing for me to comprehend, like when Fernando Pessoa wrote of dream - he didn't have it at all, he just yearned, pictured, and merged. As I skip the photograph of a ugly girl and secretly regret having seen it, I realize I'm the same with everyone else; as I'm compelled by a movie or a line to write something on the wall or as signature, I realize my taste is trivial and momentary; and as I hear and enjoy my own lies wholeheartedly, without even the slightest trace of pretense, I realize the person I deem myself is artificial. But it continues, all continues, like or not, choose or not, accept or not, succeed or not, restrained by my perennial perspective. And the city beyond my vision, nation beyond my hearing, world beyond my imagination, cosmos beyond my comprehension, do not exist.

4/22

Middle school to me is the most memorable. I got in to Jiangnan via the connections of my aunt. I could've gone to a better place if I had picked up Olympiad training at the second grade of elementary school or chosen the one in Nanjing by my sister. It was a time when suddenly pubic hair turns into normality and those who yet possess it will be laughed at. I met Jiangnan You, a girl whose name was mistaken a multitude of times, during the first few weeks of class. Since everything is new, and nothing restraining had emerged, my courage to try out unprecedented, nontraditional things as well increased. I asked her number on the bus. By then I was using my first mobile phone - the first generation of smartphones on the market - costing more than 4000. I texted her with various things, topics. I did not ever discover that I can have so many things to share, things that I don't even share with my mom. A month later, she was mine. And a second later, I dumped her. Yeah, that was me; that's still me. My morbid obsession with challenges presumably originated there. The same phone was confiscated. A friend of mine and I listened LINKIN PARK on the campus, fascinated with the rebellion we seem to represent and the way English in the song differs that of teacher's speaking. Therefore I decided to go with American English, and I've perfected it now. Laterwards he was discovered of using an electronic device, and I panicked and pulled the earphones out of the slot. IPhone was not invented then, so the music didn't automatically stop. I moved home because the former one was demolished, and skipped summer homework because I had an excellent excuse - I've lost it in the moving. Both my teachers and my classmates disbelieved it, but I wasn't forced to do it eventually. The bicycles, the geologically incorrect joke, the girls and boys curious but tentative about each other - yes, it has passed. I'm now lying on the bed typing a post not even myself would read, and simultaneously worrying about the panic disorder and the side effects of the medications I'm taking.

Every time I'm sleepy, and it's rainy, all of my perceptions seem to dim. I see previously chided emotions and feel their poignancy; I contradict myself, and contradict again in the morning. The theramic heater has been malfunctioning for a while, but it's no longer winter so I won't need it. The mouse I touched just hours ago died hours ago. It has never made a sound, or stopped eating. It would shake, and look at me with its uncomprehending, anticipating eyes. And I would always go down or upstairs once I've touched it. It's a passer of my world. Would my mom and father do the same? Would I do the same? Yes, of course, although it's against our will. My brother invited me to fix his computer bought at 2008. I've never seen a laptop working for such an extended period. I plan to go with Windows 8.1 and activate it illegally. Not everyone is like my brother; not every computer is like his computer. Even though, someday it'll break, he'll perish. So will I.

My mom went to the hospital and purchased Oryzanol, Betalok, and Xanax for me. Hope the symptoms can alleviate tomorrow.

-

I'm installing Windows 8.1 with update in 53 minutes. With the current operating system, Windows 8, I acquired knowledge of what it takes to have education, and what it means to receive it. Ever since the very beginning, when I've just installed the operating system with a disk I purchased and later have to my then newly married sister - she's had a delightfully handsome child who name I don't know, I was met with difficulty in activating the operating system, in convincing my family that what I was doing is right and I don't see the worth of carrying on a mediocre life. But I didn't give up. Gradually, the computer, especially the SkyDrive folder with little blue cloud between the cover shapes, was filled with various glossary and test samples, some in .xls format, more in .pdf format. I used to wake up at 3 in the morning, drink tons of Maxwell coffee and listen to the melodic death rock by In Flames - we're the ghost of the concrete world, generic code of a dying breed. I still recall the lyrics, not because I've truly enjoyed it, but because it was so desperate, just like me. Also, there were assorted pornography carefully kept in different folders - D:\Downloads\Media for files download via QVOD, now a company under inspection, and C:\Users\billie chan\Downloads for those downloaded from the websites via Google Chrome. At first all of those files were hidden, then I found it troublesome when I was in need. Eventually I just let them expose and merge with The Book of Disquiet.epub and Evasi0n7-win-1.0.7-633a643e10531c58e7ce18018986b6d14774102.zip.

I spent weeks playing Total War: Rome II. It's the second copy of genuine games I've bought, the first was CS: GO. I had not been particularly attracted to games of this type, and I played along nevertheless because it was expensive. I didn't know how I got the money, but the game was just there, seemingly intelligent of everything I've done in front of it. When my brother declined switching to a new computer, I did secretly laughed at him - hey, look at this young/old man, enslaved by his own perspective. But only now have I learned that for people like us - I tended to set myself apart from those around me, and it was proven juvenile - an object, or two, can already constitute the majority of interesting things that ever happen. I find it pathetic, magical realistic, but not funny. I'm a funny person, I was elected as the classroom cutup, but I will never make fun of that. When people ask, what do you insist? What can you protect? My answer might be a wholly hat or something diminutive to the extent of hysterical, which I magnified only because I have nothing else to magnify.

I just decided against reinstalling the operating system. I need it up and running until the day I cross the borderline and never come back. In this sense I became my brother.

4/20

I thought of purchasing a bush hat, a trench coat, a carbon-fiber bicycle and an iPad today. And I could afford none of them. Therefore I went in and took 12 bags of instant noodles imported from Taiwan as consolation. After all they weigh more than few of those desired items combined. My brother got a shirt and a jacket from Mryup, evidently the 60% discount is how he convinced himself. My father insisted in repaying the money my sister would or would not give me. And my grandmother was angry because the fast food company failed to deliver her takeout yesterday. Whenever my uncle speaks, there's a pungent smell of cigarettes and alcohol and despondency. I updated the firmware of my aunt's new boyfriend's Samsung's i9300 phone, from 4.0.4 to 4.0.4, ate a bag of Master Kong instant noodles by the midnight - the only thing new, to me and not to anyone else, is that I dared to put 2 eggs when cooking them - which is touted on the internet to significantly boost the flavor of the noodles - I hardly noticed the difference. The bottle of wine I drank intermittently a month ago was moved to the side of the glass through which I sip coke on the desk near the computer. And I decide against drinking it. My mom suddenly noted the inconsistency on the dining table which had been consistent for the past decade and broke into my room to pour herself a cup of wine. And she as well didn't think of it in the past one month. Everything is like a bloated mouth ulcer. I bombard it with salt and bacterious finger and yellow light. And the construction site is unstoppable. And egg white definitely relates to pussy cream. I deleted 3 piano pieces by Shi Jin because of the human humming bourgeois soundtrack that spoils the entire mood of enjoying piano. However the author or the musician doesn't even have a thing to do with it - they're supposed to know music better than me yet they've tolerated this blasphemy. Maybe I'm like the guy calling hair washing sacrilegious in the Arabic world; or maybe I'm the one wearing suit on the Friday. Hey, who knows. I spent several hours trying to play the Arma III multiplayer, and find it utterly tedious - as a matter of fact that's the lame Planetside without all the WWII weapons. But those hours are gone - before the college decision notification is released. Hour is hateful, and after it, hour becomes valuable - although as I'm getting older I'm certainly taking life more seriously, sometimes I just don't. Progressively I dislike softwares that don't support name change. Is it that the words I write last longer than me? Or not, but the combination of words? Or not, because every combination is possible in a randomized, purposeless process. Or human beings are just facilitators of events with lower odds. I withhold inhaling oxygen or moving, so that the entropy of the universe can increase slower. I feel tired hence I sleep? No. I am tired hence I must sleep.
-

Approximately 10 days earlier, I found that posting via the iPhone make it feel more casual for me. But the perfectly plain text on the phone often turns out different on the website. According to my programming skill this problem is, and will remain unsolvable. I spent, literally, days, to trim the ensemble of the website until it's sufficiently minimalist to me. I googled all the HTML code although I have absolutely no idea what does it mean, and I expunge paragraphs of the codes that are not aesthetically appealing - it looks acceptable to me now - style-less, circle-less, and inaccessible. I've nailed two cans of Coca Cola. It's half-a-pill worth of caffeine, I might encounter some difficulty sleeping. But I don't know what to do, so I'll just roll on the bed and pretend I'm asleep when my mom sneaks in - and I'm sure she won't - I'm no longer 10 and she's no longer 40. My father? Oh, on his bed of dirt and secretion near my grandmother, asleep as always, and one day, asleep always. A sense of whatever, a huge presence of things and everything; the ebb and flow are pushed altogether, on the riverbed of the amorphous.

4/18

Half of the finger nails of my ring fingers was gone. They have been, in fact, gone for a while. There's a period when I like to hide them from those who know me, because it's an obvious disability, albeit a minor one. But later I started to tell my surroundings that the fingernails were severed in a fierce basketball match, and I lost them because of courage. The latter appeals to me much and is an adequate way to dispel my reeking incompetence. Every once in a while I need to clean the accrued scurf underneath, and I quietly enjoy the peculiar sense of joyfulness in rubbing some place of my body that is supposedly unreachable. In my youth fingers were part of the novelty, and the fingernails on them seem protrudingly some relic from unknown, prehistoric moments when I was just as unconscious as I'm insensible now. So I bit them, tried to rid of them, like an extraterrestrial being eager to remove the redundant structure of a new species. I had them removed verbatim and cumulatively, and forge lies about them without ever needing to worry about the consequence. A pragmatist as I am, it is unwise to be morally perfect when the society as a whole lags behind.

I've also identify the causes for my quasi- on-again-off-again heart attacks - oxidative stress. I need magnesium and vitamin E and vitamin C and when I went to the Amazon for antioxidant supplementation, none of them supports overseas shipping to China. Vagus nerve turbulence, stress, anxiety disorder, all of them will pass soon. I'll get settled on things only a few more months away - although undeniably I've been thinking this way for the past one year and situation remains static. But hey, I won't die of a heart attack, or anything precarious as the media would report, then it's fine. Human beings tend to treasure the existence for the sake of itself only when something bad happens, and they habitually ignore that things like death and void and disillusion are the norm. I'm changing that for I completely acknowledge the value of getting to be existent. To the extent in which I consider myself superior to anyone dead. But I'm also not changing because I've applied business analytical and not philosophy or any branch from humanity. I might consider take it up as a hobby though. Under the premise of knowing hundreds of millions suffering and dying on the same plant I dwell and eat excessively to think about the future of the world, in a mathematically spreaded-out way. Hypocrisy, is it not? Irony, is it not?

-

Watched the first episode of A Bite Of China: Season II, way more efficacious than 3 tablets of selected serotonin reuptake inhibitors. I saw, via the diminutive screen of my iPhone, both the simplification and sublimation of myself. I regarded myself as cosmopolitan and even omnipotent. I take clusters of high rise building, the faint, yellowish street lamps, and the incessant noise coming from the construction site as world in its most common shape. Only now do I realize that although everything in the city looks cramped and streamlined, the people building it are not. They have stories, traditions, kids awaiting for parents back in their hometown. But machine crushed their way of living, currency took their way of getting. They did not taint the city; the city tainted them. And even my writing of them is a condescension.

4/12

In the window of my invariable prison, tissues tinted with remnants of processed food, empty can and the half empty glass which I use to exert an artificially bourgeois manner, were lined up in a haphazard, ridiculous way that reminds me of a stereo with twisted cables left open and playing tones of a brown and white noise. The bite at my right buttocks still hurt whenever I sit unattendingly. And I scratch it with fingers through the ever so tight American jeans.

Seeing to me is always complex. What I see, without exceptions, presents a protracted, static beauty which the action or even the will to take a photograph would demur. The chair and the ceramic heater beneath it pose an angle that's neither direct nor slated. The cord and the bowl and the lamp look not only external and chronical, but also posthumous. The semi basket attached to the wall with duck tapes contrast greatly with the round hole from a failed attempt embodied perfectly my willingness to finish, and the uselessness of my willing. I'll never and was never to be admitted into anything. Because entry means another set of intrusions, and the inevitable enjoyment of those intrusions means an eternal exit with narrowed hope to redo or to free oneself from the toxins of expectations. Life is the search for the impossible via the useless. A noble soul seeking to explore every possibility, an equally noble soul sneering in the nullification of his outcome. Good thing is always expensive, fast internet connection, clean atmosphere, better piece of cloth to cover the genitals, and the privilege to dream wholeheartedly. By doing what I renounce, I exile myself. By keeping being occupied with objective facts, I rip out my insides to be filled with replicable externals. I fear, I'm living in an undisclosed mistake, and have misgivings about the potential of having done otherwise. When I cherish at the unique sweetness of being singular, I'm haunted by an inability to live life realistically. When I marvel at the grandeur of the world, seen or unseen, I'm caught in a cold of being forever feeble. And I often exist between the two, neither aspiring nor indulgent, but as the middle ground of a pair of confused sights - vaguely discoverable when the eyeballs are misplaced.

I want to live endlessly, meaningless and incessant throughout the fragments. To impress no one as well as to disgust no one, but just to hear the patter of rain, and the ray of sun, to exist mechanically, saddled with emptiness in the immensity of reverberations. The on again off again distaste for the pillow and the necessity of recharging the phone and eating and climbing up-and-downstairs constitute the purposeless teleology of my ever tentative life. I have books to read, that's consolatory. I have life to carry on, that's reassuring. I want to have both with sincerity, and that's impossible. The joyful is always mutually irreducible. Therefore whatever pleasure I'm having is incomplete and parochial. The off-putting is always prevalent. Therefore whatever hatred I possess is pedestrian and repetitive. I savor my desire with refusal, and I loathe my enemy by being cordial.
-

Rarely do I feel according to my action, or act according to my feeling, just like Wuxi doesn't rain a lot. But when it rains, the drizzle is at its entirety. Now long after the midnight, I sit disgracefully with my legs crossed on a wooden chair from the dining room, and the white tissue I didn't care about hours ago still fails to be disposed. It lies just as disgracefully as I am, like the board lies in the garage of a Japanese punk song, feeling perfectly good while maintaining a sense of disorientation. Perhaps I need some endorphin inhibitor, or injection. I'm simultaneously interested and irked by the labyrinth of female structure. Companionship and the need to establish family serve me no convenience other than medical emergency, which can be safely substituted by a button and an automatic defibrillator.
-

Xu is coming back tomorrow from New Zealand. I promised him that once I started a company, I will invite him to work with me. And he said in the same way. I wanted to have a conversation with him online, but feel too timid to do that. As if being abroad can burnish a man with a particular flair of estrangement. The adaptation to another culture, the acceptance of another form, are perilous for they transformed people, in an unknown direction. But what do I say but complaints and narcissism; what do I heave but powerlessness and frustration. I write, talk, repeatedly and without grace. I begrudge myself, which in turn begrudges another.

In the distance my nephew just cried and perturbed a silent modernity in the room with smell of a brand new computer and the hair dried after using an overly aromatized shampoo. The fingers of my brother were beneath the pillow, the dull pressure exerted by the weight of his tiresome head delights them. My sister lied just beside him, fixing her eyes on the television just meters in the front. Their sexual organs are in such proximity and availability to each other that neither notices them. The baby turns right and left ceaselessly to find a spot in the silent universe to brace his maturing, uncomprehending soul. Oh, she got up, finding a pair of Hello Kitty slippers, and with the decisive cracking of the floor, she went to the bathroom for the 134323 times of her life and felt the exact elatedness she feels every time in the place to contemplate and become ignorant. My brother inadvertently notices the bed sheet which is used to cover the television screen when it is not used is tangled, and after a subliminally sarcastic change in the face, he keeps watching the TV. What is broadcast there he doesn't know, he doesn't care. There's something shown there, some images with all the movements and sounds. The world is normal to him, even unchanging. Until my sister retreated from the bathroom. And my grandmother, my former teachers, all those Schrodinger people in the boxed windows of a building, there are images and movements and sounds in front of each of them, they enjoy what they won't consider enjoyment when seen objectively, they weep what they won't admit tragedy should there be a message alert to disrupt them. The IBM people, extraterrestrial people, mouse, characters in a non-fiction, molecules in the middle of a dust heap, the crushed singularity that is black hole, quantum beings lurking mathematically, all move along the time, bizarrely convinced that they're fine.

I still put the lamp above my speakers, and bookshelf above a cluster of wood whose use I don't know. I sleep in only two directions and I'm a creature of tradition. I can tell the difference between a five yuan note and a ten yuan note within a micro second, and I'm sure as hell that anything that differ my DNA by 0.1% will not be able to do that. So what? It's such a vast quantity in this 0.1% that people still must be graded, selected, wed out. This is humanity.
-

The more someone acquaints with me, the more my willingness to appear humorous dilutes. I prefer to be perceived as perfectly normal, motionless and without imagination, forgetful and rightly parsimonious. Beyond doubt, I have the intention to conceal my cynicism and the naïveté of taking fictional, idealized rules as creeds of life.

4/11

I've had this impulse of spending several paragraphs to discuss the weather and the morphology of the street, with a sense of melancholy entitlement reeking from between the lines, and have failed. When I ask myself of who I am, I'm always unable to provide an answer in an intimate term. Sometimes it's because pretense is a habit in me, or I simply don't have an answer myself. Heteronym, more precisely. I'm not the worker operating machinery in the nearby construction site, I'm the laborer trying to imagine his life. After downloading tons of books which I decided to read, it appears to me that the enjoyment of literature, and the wildness of thought are just momentary. They pass as they're ephemeral. So I sit in obeisance and wait for the iBooks to load so that I can slide to the last page to tell myself that I've finished reading. I respected, in the deepest corner of mind, the existence of humanity, and for the rest of my more conscious being, I've rejected the notion of writing, be it composing or documenting. Yet again, I'm writing, to my reluctance, to my pleasure.

I received an interview invitation from the Industrial Design Department of the NUS. And I turned it off out of financial hardships, possible rejection letter of other people, or laziness whatever. I'm curious about the future, and I try my best to plan it, to stereotype it according to my sarcastic preconception. The noise, the car backing warning, and the sour taste of coke I adored so miserably in the past, and avert so continuously right now. I once told my brother, people will change, and we changed. I once told my sister, I'm getting mature and confident, and I'm not. The desperate girl texted me three times despite the dearth of reply from me. She wanted that guy to fall in love with her, she believes he secretly loves her - belief is never prediction - she's now sobbing, suiciding, eating bread and Prozac, everything but succeed in her wish. People invent words, invent sentence, and invent state of the arts in order to describe their helplessness more distinctly, and soul more crushingly. They howl for a sec and then moan the next. They've died as soon as they're born. He's dead; he's born; he's dead; he's born. But the one who's dead is happy, and the one who's born is ignorant, therefore, equally happy. Gao and his girlfriend tried the sexual exploration again today. She's penetrated with his finger. And they are happy. Then wait for a year and a half, situation's changed, they are separating with a form of supreme composure and an oblivious bittersweet flashback into the necropolis of their past. Hey, doggie style they said, G-spot they said, and all of a sudden they grew tired. I had enough, you? Damn, I so loathe you would you please get off the bed but go not too far away so I still see you next time when I need you physically and psychologically - and I loathe you.

The light is glaring. I told the Apple customer service to remove my account balance, so I can update QQ Music in Chinese App Store. The sound of the name, the language of it is inconsistent, obsessively wrong. But I've got Icon Renamer by Ryan Petriach installed. I could do a little modification. Where the hell is iOS 7.1 jailbreak then, pod2g?

On my phone also Wechat app is deleted to be replaced with Youdao Dict. Offline British and American pronunciations are downloaded. And they've cost me electricity, and healthiness of my brain cell. Mysteriously, mystery.

My uncle failed his business after losing 60k of initial investment, which comes from me and my father and my grandmother. And he's not accused of anything. No one dares to accuse an alcoholic or even feels sorry or sympathetic. Because disappointment is natural and expectation is affiliatory. I'm not an alcoholic, I rarely disappoint anyone. I squeeze in them iron and blood and bullet. Godlike and remorselessly I pursue the sun.
-

Chinese Apple users have a high demand for games and apps that are not available in the local App Store. ITunes Gift Card is a perfect solution. The dearth of the online stores selling those cards presents an opportunity. In the United States, cards with up to 25% discount is frequent, when sold with 10% interest, the selling price is still significantly lower than that of the most competitors. But yeah, I don't have spare money to purchase any discounted gift cards. So I'll just pass it.

4/9

What do they want? Judging by the decisions they've made, people who eat gigantic amount of instant noodles, have exorbitant sex life, and dare to write about them in their resume. I fancy that's what the society truly needs - the ability to prevent oneself from starving to death by eating cheap, highly processed food, and those who are stricken and addicted by the magnitude of their libido. Browsing through the internet, fabricated news and scientific discoveries appear on the same page, and a British old lady just killed herself because she can't accept all these. My fondness for the unreal is also superimposed with the staggering absurdity of reality. Mom said to me, hey, you'll only be happy when I'm dead. And she smokes cigarettes and I grab a knife to kill her. The computer is malfunctioning, network connection is once again reset by remote server, right! I'd smash them with my fist and only to pick them up at a later time. I chat, endlessly attentive to the elegance of my speech, and the concealment of my ego, with sincerity and politeness and all. Of course, but what's genuine, what's plastic I don't know. I'm a protagonist, the stage is not the platform I used to deify myself. It is myself, I am deity!

Novel, money, music, coca cola, humanity, Razer Blade laptop, if, for a moment of time they exist, they're eternal. But what's everything opposed to what I see and smell and perceive, who I am but a manifestation of law? Questions, I've always had questions. At the first year of middle school, I encountered a girl called Jiangnan. She uses a peculiar type of medication to regulate her period. I fell in love with her. Lying in the bed of my now demolished home, I wondered what she's thinking. Is it about me? Does she love me? Oh acnes I must tackle. Will she let me take picture of her with my long lost Symbian Sony Ericsson smartphone? But as soon as she confide to me that she too has a crush on me, why the hell did I so ruthlessly deleted everything about her? She told me what I won't be loving her after graduation. She's right, the pursuit itself is everything I've ever desired. I'm accused of being an introvert, a desperate weirdo, the most handsome person in class no.4. But that all has passed. Like my sister, like her daughter, like her granddaughter who may or may not exist; like Symbian and her; like the books I read and the words I write; like me.

Although I notice drastic difference between how do I look now and how did I look like in the photograph, I did not, ever witness how it actually changes. I replicate and savor, and sadly notice the remote distinction of life. The floor cracks when my mom walks on it; the floor cracks when I walk on it. Yet it doesn't know a thing, nor does a pair of slippers - a slightly curved surface when they're bought, and the wide circle they're now. Nothing in life is more or less real by having been well portrayed. They're equally real, and unreal.

People don't like bankruptcy. When I first hear that one of my will-be colleges is in danger of going bankrupt, I wavered. But the wonton shop between the back door of my primary school and my grandma's house was closed 2 or 3 years ago. The owner moved to a new place in Hangzhou to continue her business. To me, it means the wonton shop is bankrupt. She used to say that my mom started to eat there before I was born and even during when I was in a uterus. The tie between her and my family seems strong. A mutual friendliness, no, something more than just friendliness occur whenever I grab a coin and a grandma to patronize. But she's gone. And I'm sure as hell for the rest of my life I won't be seeing her at all. She's great. She's got dedicated extracurriculars, she should go to Harvard. And the flair at another wonton shop, has even begun to intimidate me. My 80-year-old grandma brought me there, at the corner of an old street, to eat her favorite dish. She's 80 and got daughters making tons of money. And all she can think of during a day is a bowl of wonton, cost 2 yuan 5 years ago, and 12 now. She appears totally socialist in an increasingly capitalist city. She didn't resist, she acknowledged that she'll be outdated eventually. She doesn't need sympathy. She likes congee and wonton and chitchat, and I give her sympathy. I'm the misfit, not her.

4/7

I picked up a novel called Tailoring the Early Tang Dynasty - I've always been amazed by the degree to which translated Chinese can seem stupid in English - I spent 3 days or 4 reading it. But upon finishing slightly more than 50% of the book, I was thoroughly irritated by the blatant chauvinism that seems so natural among the pages. And after that, I discovered myself in the usual stalemate of having nothing to read. I must confess, however, it is with difficulty that I obtained an EPUB copy of Taipei by Tao Lin - its ultra-high resolution self-consciousness just doesn't fit me.

And the new domain, which I had spent $29.99/yr. to purchase, is rife with various name server errors that are plainly impossible to tackle. Luckily I managed to set it up running. To a minimalist like me, the dot co suffix is much more amicable than is the dot com. I find it quite enjoyable to write something down. Not necessarily in the language of literature, not necessarily eloquent or even logic, the act is a pleasure unto itself. I, out of sympathy, recommended blogging to a girl suffering from anxiety and break-up. I suggested that she sum up things at the end of each day to discover what's truly important. She declined with a bizarre persistence to be the girlfriend of some guy who already has one. It's not easy for me not to brand her insane. It just adds up to my conviction that female, or more specifically females without an education in feminism, is intrinsically prone to unreasonable deeds. I once wrote on a piece of draft paper at high school that the unresponsiveness to a message is the utmost form of impertinence in the Information Age. And I haven't replied to her last message. Am I self-aware? Am I guilty? Am I willing to change? Of course yeah, but eventually I told myself that the world is inexorable and sometimes not to wish is not to be disillusioned.

The Tomb Sweeping Day is postponed at my grandma's. Me, papa, niece who's already 14, aunt, uncle, uncle's girlfriend, sister went to a platform half way to the top of Hui Hill and held a memorial ceremony for my long dead grandfather. My father kept advertising how good granny was to me, and I nodded and wondered if I truly remembered anything. I told my grandfather, hey, buddy, take care on your road to heaven. Should the after-world exists, he will have definitely finished the journey by the time I uttered those equivocal and comical words. No one seems to have noticed that there was a sarcasm in my speech. If when burnt papers function as money, if when holding the ceremony our sentiments are sincere, why I've never been to the tombs of my great grandma? Not to mention the ancestors.

And yet again I doubted that I might be having heart problems. I went to the 2nd People's Hospital only to be informed that their ultra-sonic equipment operator was having a 3 day vacation. And at the People Hospital, I was told of the same thing. My mother doesn't appear to have the vaguest knowledge of how serious heart problems can be and become. They complaint relentlessly that I'm using too much money for the ultimately moot health inspection. In actuality her ideology is correct. What's the purpose of medication examination if our life is so feeble? And finding a beautiful girl and let her pass into her obscurity is no different from making her my wife, and witnessing her pass into my obscurity.

I found on the internet that Prozac might be on long-term potency in addressing my problem. I decided to pick it up tomorrow. I wanted to end the piece by "May God bless my dream" and in light of the obvious failure of my last prayer, I'm stopping it. And, hey God, I don't want to die and I'd like to exchange everything got the fulfillment of that wish.

4/3

Before I am admitted into a college, going to a high school is the first priority; and before that, middle school; elementary school; kindergarten; mama; and milk. After I'm admitted into a college, going to a graduate school is the first priority; and after that, doctorate; job; marriage; kids with divorce (maybe); retirement plan; retirement; death. In every frame of reference there seems to be something in the past left undone, or in the future to be done. Lucky people achieve each of their goals; unlucky ones don't and usually weep at it. The extent to which I understand these is shocking, yet the forgetfulness to which I neglect them is just as so. When Gao asked me via the iMessage - he is a high school student with much more hope than I had college entrance exam - about whether he should retake the test after June - should it went bad. I saw an exact replica of myself one year ago. By then I could in no way predict the outcome; by now he can in no way predict the same. However, the science fiction writer Liu Cixin, whose book Three Body I was reading ten minutes ago, went studying chemistry in his college. He aspired to be a chemist yet ended up a fiction writer. It must sound like a dismay to him when he was filling out the college application. But everything worked out for him eventually. In a shadowy corner of some lesser known country, a pseudo-existent kid aspired to be the CEO of Morgan Stanley and died in a slum, or in a war with NATO, or in a terrorist attack he planned against the more conservative faction of a street gang. I reserve the right to say, hey, you see that's not a good ending for him. But it's never up to me, or anyone to judge. Maybe in a micro second before his death he suddenly understood the meaning of life and therefore the little penalty is worth it. It's up to the collective mishmash of human chaos, the inexorable opinion of society - the most delicate organization of matter so far in the known universe to do that.

I remember someone said on the CUUS forum, the most valuable thing one can acquaint in this process is those fellows who accompanied you. Yeah, indeed I met Liu Chang and Dream and Mark and Rabbit and Lullaby and Gao and Night and Yuzi and Babyface. But I'm also sure the occasion in which I write or remember all those names is the last one in my life. I don't know how Fernando Pessoa was writing during his freshman year, or James Joyce, or any author I have adored. The richness of a particular skill or the lack thereof can both be viewed as a positive characteristic - Churchill with his V sign backward or the rest of human race? The question is dumb - but it possesses the potency to put the most fundamental rule of modern society into suspicion - Churchill invented the gesture; the rest of us are simply trying to replicate it. So whenever one puts up a V sign in front of a camera, Churchill becomes a superior being. Everyone is created equal they said - no, never, someone has died in their mom's uterus; some has died during delivery; some was born caesarean style; some natural child birth. And many listened to Bach and many listened to gunshots. Fuck it, equality, fuck it.

Steve Jobs is a legendary entrepreneur and his products cost money! Ha-ha, for some reason it always amuses me.

Lately I was trying to learn German via Duolingo: it's my conviction that if I want to stay in Germany, I have to learn German. I've learned Das Brot; Ich bin gut; Du bist ein Mann. And they constitute my knowledge of the language. Yet I feel exactly the same when I'm using das Brot and necropolis and anthropomorphism. Exactly the same! That's the wonderful part, I acquire something, and forget it. The process doesn't have anything to do with the quality of my acquisition, but with the act of gaining something itself - be it a piece of shit or a bag of gold - only preconception at work, no objective judgement. So yeah, everyone, at every moment, is actually feeling an equal amount of goodness, or badness, depending on how you look at it.

-

A woman on the internet is asking, how not to feel pain when giving childbirth. She just can't reach the conclusion that child itself is entirely optional. That's how, peer pressure, paternal and maternal instinct, tradition restrain us.

4/2

Inadvertently I discovered that my chance of eventually ending up in National University of Singapore remains. This is a rather cheering news to me at this bewildered time. Although, as regular, on the College Confidential site a giant batch of Indians and Singaporeans are distributing derogatory comment about this school - I always want to say that to have a university to go to is a dream unto itself. Evidently this rule doesn't apply to everyone - but it applies to me. I've heard criticisms about the way the nation operates. It seems that as far as the humane part of the country is concerned, Prozac is a prerequisite for ordinary living. But I saw it differently when I traveled to Singapore for the 2 SAT tests. It is my first time to ever truly confirm a foreign country exists, where language other than Chinese is not only taken as a symbol of some distant and undefined culture, but also as concrete means of expression. The experience, is generally positive - beside the weather - oh thy hellish weather I just couldn't survive without air conditioner. Problems westerners usually have with this country must have something to do with its depressingly tropical climate.

Because I was instilled with a new kind of hope, I allowed myself to gauge 2 bags of Taiwan-imported Uni-president ramen noodles. It's always fun to cook things. I'd like to have them refrigerated, so the sauce, the powder, the beef packet can be easily expelled. Multi vitamins pills, aspirin, noodles constitute nearly everything of my hideous life.

I was admitted into Jacobs University with a pretty decent financial aid, though the frequency with which the loans appears might be unsettling, overall I just need to pay less than 20,000 euro per year. It's still not a number I can afford, but with the begrudging help from my adorable-occurring cousins, and the die-hard money making burst from my father, I'm at least able to brace myself. Although the ability and the legitimacy of purchasing the new Razer Blade laptop will come to question. But now, things are a bit different. While past experience tells me nothing is a safety with financial needs, the policy that stipulates graduates must work for the Singaporean government for 6 years should they received support for their college education is reassuring. I don't have to learn German to stay there anymore. My bottom line is unchanged throughout the struggle for going out - I must avoid China. And Singapore is an awesome replacement.

I downloaded a list of books into iBooks. But I just can't settle for any of those. To me, to dip myself into words or literature is to dip myself into escapism. And every time the reality becomes appealing, my interest in reading decreases sharply. That might explain why the rich and the poor coexist in harmony - the rich has pursuit in reality, and the poor has pursuit in fiction. But it is beyond doubt that both of them have pursuit in alibis.

April Fools' Day was feeble - every year on that day false alert becomes prevalent on website without the need to be concerned about legal disputes. And me and Gao and various other shady people always expect their own false alert - no such thing has ever showed up. When it comes to career or future or prospect or capitalist market, everything is serious, including on April Fools' Day. Now even that has past. I don't know if I should be happy of the fleeting nature of time or be the otherwise. I won't hear decision from NUS until the middle of May. But I will one day feel exactly the same as I'm feeling right now. People call it greed; I call it nature.

When I was out sending the supporting documents to Jacobs, I got to read the posters near the construction site. It seems a large mall will soon show up for a while until it's demolished.

-

What is Wuxi No.3 Senior High School? A second rate school in a second rate city. What if someone in that school pops up and applies for Harvard? That must be with misrepresentation and total bookishness. Like the way I substitute cherries for potatoes, people might as well substitute crane operator for investment banker. When I sit on the perennial chair and browse through the lecture delivered by President Xi Jinping, and Alipay being strangled by the big 4 national banks of China, a slight sense of alienation coupled with a remote but distinct disgust flooded past me. I was, in every perspective, an unprofessional. I change my decisions as often as it suits me, and adapt to dismay so expeditiously that I myself am left behind. I take every trauma, every dire situation objectively, behaving like a flesh machinery seeking whatever prestigious as meaning. I'm not even allowed to deplore the external way of appearance I maintained, because "Hey, your father is smart and bad at people skills. Your father takes money as breeze doesn't mean you should too. And if you did, guess what, we are not going to donate 5000 RMB a month to an idiot!" Therefore, with my secrets betrayed to the admissions people, dignity to the relative people, what's left in me are residues, accumulated at the bottom of a cup, lurking to cause some harm when some new guy dares to drink with it. I fear, no, I recognize I'm not longer the one to discuss the relationship between academic rigor and quality with total strangers on the internet, to post anti- and pro-nationalist comments below YouTube videos. I'm just the one sleeping and eating and reading pretentiously, shaking occasionally when tragic or shockingly good imagination emerges in my head. Because, I've got a hold of English, I began to switch to Japanese songs like I did English ones when I was in the first year of junior middle school. Singing along every song every piece of melody I deem potent in attracting females, without knowing lyrics or even how to pronounce them.

When I wake up in the morning to find myself alive, a part of me secretly becomes eager to discover my mom dead on the floor. Or I jump out of a window, just in order to add a little something to the kind of life I am having. I take a Xanax pill and recover in a millisecond, then I spit it out because Xanax is addictive. As a result I'm running low on ammo now. And this morning in particular, a not so beautiful-19-year-old girl asked me to be her sister. Her crush on me and my disdain for everything except for supernaturally hot girls made me unresponsive. I understand the impact unresponsiveness can incur to someone in love. But I can't help doing it. After all, I'm the same type of creature. Your love is not my business, my love, however, is yours. Innate egotism is worth being branded a noble trait.

It might be necessary to let people experience the life of their sympathy. Just a thought.

There's a total amount of 2,928.00 RMB in my now 68-year-old father's rural commercial bank account, and he all gave it to me. Judged by what he's doing, it's rather impertinent of me to go after bullocks dream like that. I'm ambitious, talented, and courageous. But who's not? Yeah, indeed, who's not?