131 - Alcohol, work and loud music go well together

So, I guess you could say I'm a little bit tipsy. Just had one margarita, but mind you, that stuff is around 30%. I mean, I didn't calculate it properly. 30% just came to the top of my head, it was a guess, an estimate. We don't need to actually calculate it. I mean, we could. Hey, let's calculate it.

According to Wikipedia according to the International Bartenders Association, the standard ratio of a margarita is 7:4:3 for tequilla:Triple Sec:lime juice. Now, I had a 400ml clear plastic cup, so using the same ratio I just mentioned, and converting them into percentages (50%:29%:21%), we can therefore know that we would require 200.0ml of tequilla and 116.0ml of Triple Sec (and therefore 84.0ml of lime juice, by the way). As tequilla is 40% alcohol, that means 80.0ml of alcohol came from the tequilla. That's simple arithmetic. Duh. And as for the Triple Sec, it's 30% alcohol, so 34.8ml of alcohol came from the Triple Sec. (I calculated this in my head by rounding up 116.0ml to 120.0ml so the figures were easier, giving me an alcohol volume of 36.0ml, then I subtracted 30% of the difference that I added [which was 4.0 milliliters], which turned out to be 1.2ml, giving me the final alcohol content in milliliters as 34.8ml.) So if there is 80.0ml and 34.8ml of alcohol, there are 114.8ml, and just doing a quick calculation of 114.8 divided by 400ml, that is roughly 115/400 ml, which is roughly 23/80, which just trust me, is around 0.2875. (If you really want to know how I did that in my head, I basically multiplied both numbers by 1.25, since 80 times 1.25 is 100. This essentially gave me 28.75 when I multipled 23, so all I had to do is move the decimal place back two digits and that was it.) I am now proud to announce that what I drank was 28.75% alcohol. My initial guess of 30% wasn't that far off, was it? Isn't that neat?

You see, alcohol makes my mind run faster, my understanding of everything around me lucid. My perception may be a little bit impaired. I'm sure I wouldn't be able to taste or smell anything if it was pressed up against my face. I can't really feel my legs, but maybe it's because they're crossed. And my arms feel tired, I have no idea why. The only thing that hasn't changed is my level of visual perception. My eyesight is never affected, it's 20/20 vision all the time. As for my hearing, I can't hear a damn thing other than my music. I sure hope there aren't zombie lurking behind me, moaning and roaring at me. I wouldn't be able to smell them or hear them. I also hope that the whole building situated behind me isn't burning in flames. I don't think I would be able to smell or feel that either.

Music is a funny thing. People always ask me what kind of music I like, and I tell them 'Mainstream' is my thing. But I don't think that's what it is. I think I like songs which I know the lyrics to. Maybe because all my favorite songs just happen to be mainstream, that is why I know the lyrics to everything in my iPod. It's easier to practice as it plays in clubs and shops and stuff.

The title of this post is 'Alcohol, work and loud music go well together', because I know that once I've had some to drink, and once I've placed my earphones in my ears and turned up the music to the maximum volume, I become extremely efficient when I work. Alcohol works as some sort of fuel for me. They always say that alcohol doesn't change who you are, it reveals who you are. And perhaps the sober me doesn't like to do anything, doesn't like to work, to be proactive, to be lively, to be talkative, to be ranty. The sober me feels the need to act quiet, repressed, submissive, doesn't want to take chances, risks, initiative, action or a hold of his life.

Maybe the sober me will read this after the hangover and learn something. Good luck, Mike, living the way you do. If your way of living doesn't work out for you, you could always invite me back to be your substitute.

121 - How do we know that's the right thing to do?

Every few months or so, I get told that I think too much, that I'm over-complicating things and I should learn to just relax and let the little things go. My defense mechanism to counter these claims is substitution by alternative phrasing. Instead, I call it logical reasoning. I call it careful assessment of my situation. I call it elaboration. I call it attention to detail. I call it keeping a critical eye. I call it making an informed decision. I call it wisdom. I call it not judging a book by its cover. I call it an evaluation. I call it reflection. I call it effective writing. I call it a rant. I call it a simple train of thought. I call it the pursuit of clarity. And last but not least, I also call it my blog.

I call my obsessive-compulsive infatuation with specification by a great number of titles, all with the aim of shrouding my immoderate committal, my limitless passion, my exorbitant ambition towards the practice of rationality, due to which I strive to act in the most sensible, practical way possible, that reaps the most benefit with the least hindrance, but truth be told, I'm a walking, and way too often, talking, load of bullshit.

Because somehow, despite my incredibly analytical mentality, bad things still happen. Call it fated by the wrong pantheon of gods, call it rotten luck, call it the very consequence of my excessive contemplation - bad things happen to me, around me, because of me, anyway, in spite of the fact that I try so hard to avoid setbacks and tribulations and the other half of reality that doesn't go the way I want it to. And the only thing that seems right to do at this point, is to push myself harder, and harder, and harder, and harder, until the finish line brings a peace and harmony to my life that took years, and decades, what feels like my entire life to reach.

But that's not the way it works at all. The way it really works is one never truly feels completely matured. One never feels old enough. One never feels like they're one step ahead in life. One can never learn the ideal combination of life lessons that will allow for pure faultlessness of existence. We are forever young and inexperienced. We are forever surprised, and unprepared to face the obstacles on our journey. Just when you think you have it altogether, one tiny little thing screws up, and then another thing gets spoiled as a result. And then it's like the house of cards just came tumbling down, just as you were putting down the last 7 and King for its roof.

I feel like it's time to start all over again. But then again, it's always time to start all over again. There's always something going wrong, just as there's always something going right. There's always something to mend, and once you've fixed it, something else has shattered, something else fell off the table, or that first thing was vandalized after you had just cleaned it up. There's never any time to simply stop. There's never time to feel perfect. It's always something - something that makes you look and feel like an overly complacent idiot.

I wish I could mean it when I say that the trick is not to get too caught up with it all. But I don't think I, or anyone else, can perform that phenomenal trick. That is actual magic.

So I don't know what to do. And I forgot what my initial point was. I hope this was enthralling literature for you nonetheless. For the seventh time tonight, I'm going to go to bed, and try and fall asleep.

85 - I knew a girl called Jade.

There was a time when I had the chance to date this beautiful girl six years ago. She was Australian-Chinese, and we initially met in our first year of high school. When you spoke to her for the first time, you would know in your mind to place her in the 'cool' clique at school. She simply had that charm about her, in the fragrance of her hair, the apparent sincerity of her smile, the chipmunky cheerfulness of her voice, her whole aura, a kind of biological femininity that was especially crafted for luring male companions, for enticing men, but her kindliness and immediate congeniality not necessarily indicative of you two strangers turning into friends, or becoming something more.

I, on the other hand, went into high school open-minded, and lacking any predetermined social standing. I was one of those kids that had the potential to end up a studious nerd, a lonesome bully, a suicidal emo kid, a regular Joe, a friendly Tom, an outrageously gay socialite, a muscular jock, or one of those guys that are just as clingy as their girlfriends and that never hang out with anyone else because both members of the relationship are too mutually preoccupied with having to attend to each other's needs and wants every minute of every day.

It was conceivable for me to be that last guy - to end up with that gorgeous-looking girl, to hang out with her and her two younger brothers all the time on yachts and on beaches, surfing, building sand castles, summering with her family on the coast of Maui, Costa Rica or Cebu, to make out during romantic movies and feed each other popcorn, to hold hands as we walked through the school corridors and sat in classrooms, unafraid of displaying our sick, mushy love for each other, to have amazing secret sex in parks and on rooftops that would make anybody jealous if they heard about it, to curl up next to a fireplace on long winter nights, playing Monopoly, drinking hot cocoa and exchanging funny anecdotes, or perhaps sharing our thoughts on what life would be like if it were drastically different from the one we were living...

Despite all the images I could conjure up now, it isn't the way it turned out. The details aren't necessary for you to know (as I am ashamed of said details), but in the end, Jade and I (and everybody else) all attribute the non-existence of this relationship in history to my own foolishness. This could-have-been pairing is just one of those situations that belongs in dreams and alternate realities.