I fear many things.

I fear the death of my parents. I am afraid of the day that I am unable to call on them, ask how they are doing, have dinner with them. I am afraid of not being able to tell them that I love them, that I care for them, that I am grateful for all they have done for me. I am terrified that I will not be able to gather the courage to ask them if they are proud of me before it is too late.

I fear the possibility of leading a solitary existence. I am afraid of going through life on my own. I cannot fathom not being able to talk about my insecurities and my worries with that special someone. I cannot imagine having no one to bear witness to my triumphs, my follies, through every step of life's journey. I find it painful to think that my concern and love for another is so worthless that it is unappreciated, discarded, goes unnoticed.

I fear that I am too blind to see my own character flaws. I fear that I am too selfish, or too critical, or judgemental, or too insensitive. I fear that I am too narrow-minded, or too proud, or too lazy. I am afraid that what I take for confidence is nothing more than an overly-inflated sense of self.

I fear that I may be fucking up my life with the way I view my career. I am afraid that my current goal of trying to be happy rather than rich is too unrealistic to sustain. I fear that the way I restrain my advances in order to maintain my sanity and freedom is nothing more than an excuse to be lazy and irresponsible.

I am afraid of living a life that bears no fruit. I am afraid that I will end up being just another parasite in society, that does not contribute in any sense, not even by having children who will end up being useful citizens. I am afraid of leaving this world without improving it in any meaningful way.

I fear diseases and disabilities. I do not wish to be a burden unto others.

I fear a loss of independence and freedom, no matter how it is brought about.

I fear death. I fear dying. I fear I will never be prepared for this eventuality.

I fear so many things that one wonders why I am not paralyzed by it. The answer is simple: I don't think about it. And yet the very act of not thinking about such things is what makes them so devastating when they finally manifest.

I love this game.

So, I've just finished my second game of basketball in 3 years or so. My hamstrings and calves ache like hell, my back is sore, my shoulders and upper arms feel stretched beyond their intended stretching limits, and every step I take makes me want to curl up in a corner and die a quiet death. Even my non-existent ass hurts. In short, I feel great!

I am not what you would call a naturally athletic person. I have skinny arms/legs/everything, and really shitty stamina. The only sports in which I am interested in is basketball and pingpong, and never to the extent of watching such sports on the idiot box. I just want to play them.

Now, I am no expert in the game, even though I used to play it competitively at school level. I have no cool tricks and don't play to impress. What really drives me to play is the rush of adrenaline that floods my veins as I run around the court trying to score, making opportunities for a short pass or trying to rebound a shot. I feel super-alert; my senses feel heightened and refined. Things slow down and speed up dramatically. My body movements are efficient and exact, every limb is at the right place, at the right time. The fatigue and tension in my muscles seemingly disappear for a few seconds as I burst forward to intercept a pass, drive the ball closer to the hoop, pull a jump shot and watch as the ball swishes silently through the net. Okay, that happens rarely, I admit. But when it does, it's beautiful. All the muscles stiffening up, and skinned knees/elbows and resulting pain and fatigue the following day is always worth it. Always.

Is the answer really 42?

So I've watched the movie adaptation of The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy. I've never heard the original radio version no read the book, so I can't say whether the following was an addendum by the film's writers or if it really is part of the original thing.

Near the end of the story, the protagonist is pressed for the Question to the Ultimate Answer. His response?

Is she the one?

Now, I'm not going to speculate on how other people think, and besides, this thing is all about me and why I am great. Therefore, in my not-very-humble opinion, this really is one of the greatest puzzlers pertinent to my life. It is a question that elicits all sorts of emotional responses, ranging from nervousness to worry to hopeful optimism to barely-contained frustration.

Is she the one?

How does one know the answer to that question? The obvious way is to go ahead and ask her out and find out from there. But what if you can't even get your foot through the door, a.k.a. get shot down? You ask yourself the question again, because if the answer is no, then you give up and go do something else. If its yes, then you keep trying and trying until you succeed or she hates your very guts because you won't take no for an answer.

Is she the one?

Assuming you got your foot through the door (you lucky dog you!), how much time does it take before you can answer the question completely and confidently? How many fights, how much grief must you both go through before you would dare give that question a resounding 'NO' for an answer? Give it too soon, and you may be jumping the gun. You may be making the biggest mistake of your life by giving up too soon, by not having the tolerance required to achieve happiness, by not cherishing what you already have and instead trying constantly for what you could have. On the other hand, taking too long to answer 'no' would result in a lot of pain for very little gain, and lost time.

And if you want to answer 'yes', conversely, wouldn't saying it too early simply up the chances that you may eat your own words later on? And even worse...what if that answer comes to you too late? When it's all over, and words have been said that cannot be taken back, and the damage is done...and you stand alone in the aftermath, and in the ashes of your relationship, it hits you that you've made a terrible, terrible mistake. And that the answer to that question was actually a simple, quiet 'yes'.

This question implies that there is a perfect someone for everyone. Or in the very least, someone with the highest compatibility rating. So, would you settle for less and build up from there? Or do you try to find the best fit and start from theoretically solid ground? Hence, is she the one?

I hate this question.

This is a stupid entry.

Hair-flipping and its terrible consequences.

Most women with shoulder-length or longer hair will flip it from time to time. I am using this term in its most general sense. I take it to mean anything from brushing strands out of their eyes to a full flip after putting on a jacket. I have studied this curious action for quite some time now, and the reasons are many and varied. Some of them are:

- to remove visual obstruction
- to stop the jacket or some other article of clothing from pinning the hair down
- to brush away hairs that are sticking to one's neck or face
- out of habit

One unintentional effect of hair-flipping is to make me fall in love with you. I don't know why it is so, it just is. When a woman flips her hair, the whole scene goes into bullet-time for me. Her fingers seem to run effortlessly through the shining, unique strands. A breeze appears out of nowhere and gently sculpts the delicate waves of shimmering silk into a vision of glory. In short, it looks exactly like a television commercial for some hair product. I am devastated and floored by such a fleeting, yet wondrous display of femininity.

So if you are one of those who is in the habit of flipping your hair, don't blame me if I develop a crush on you.

I need my sleep, you goddamn dictator. Go AWAY.

One idiosyncrasy I have is that I prefer absolute silence for the first 20 minutes upon awakening. This only applies in the morning, not for afternoon naps and whatnot. During this time period, I do not wish to hear pots and pans clashing and smashing in the kitchen, no noisy engine start-ups, and most importantly, no TALKING. It gets my dander up when someone dares utter words in my direction or tries to engage me in pointless conversation so early in the morning. I mean, come on, I've just been dragged out of blissful sleep into this dark, uncaring universe against my will. Give me time to grouch and reset my initial discontent at the world, please.

Which brings me to the true point of this post: my dad has retired and he's driving me mad. Ever since he stopped working a few days ago, he has been on my nerves and set everyone else' teeth on edge. He wakes up real early in the morning and seems to take offense that some of us like to wake up when it is 2 hours or so away from noon. So he goes about the house banging and clashing and moving furniture about. Even worse, he starts up the vacuum cleaner. Oh, how I hate him for that. He takes the accursed thing and vacuums just outside my fucking door.

Also, I have some flexibility in my work in that I can go in 30 minutes late and no one would bat an eyelid. Except my father. He sticks his head through my door and wakes me up and asks if I'm skipping work today, 1 hour before my allotted wake-up time.

I'm going crazy here. Someone save me from my father.