last night's outing with jack and cheewei is the best proof of what a failure i am at organising one. never mind that. yesterday was the first time i heard of this biopolis. now i know it has nice architecture, is a ghost-town at night and has a slightly overhyped food court tucked away somewhere inside. we moved on to sin at max brenner choco bar. basically, the giant truffle was the nicest of the lot we ordered. yes, at the esplanade. read: don't even know why we met at buona vista in the first place. and a reminder to myself: stop committing faux pases and eat desserts the right way and order suckao the next time. we whiled away the rest of the time beside marina bay and on a er.. cow-skin couch outside my humble place.

don't know why hanging out with these guys is always a different, unique experience from going out with other classmates. we must go out again. ktv?

and so what's the big deal about blogging anyway?
surely many people have posted something about this. and i'm asking myself, why am i still blogging? to satisfy this exhibitionistic streak in myself? partly maybe. or perhaps it's for the self-justified reason of keeping my memories in black and white so that i can someday revisit my posts and reminisce, given the sentimental geek i am.

and what the hell should i blog about? am i writing a silly diary or reflecting? should i post my daily activities? that's pretty much what i've been doing. but over-revelation is sort of like getting all naked online or being the lead of the truman show. and i don't think i want myself, and definitely much less, others, to read about stuff like lengthy descriptions of a stomachache when i check my archives. should it be a creative outlet like what jack's been doing, writing short stories? would it still be about me? or do i risk alienation by my friends who get different ideas about me when i post depressing thoughts about myself? face it, we do censor ourselves a fair bit. and my idea of what my blog should be is one of an honest reflection of this darn life. i think every word i've written is honest so far, though i may not be consicously revealing everything about myself. but i still feel so powerless sometimes. the written word is so limiting. the me you think you know by reading my blog is probably not the me i want people to know.

i'm not sure but i think i know what i'm bothered about: am i really writing for myself or for your eyes, the you reading this now?

i am really getting less inspired. i don't really know what i'm rattling on about, i don't really feel for it and i'm not making a point.