Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Archive for December 2007

Venture Capitalist Romanticism

Your businesss and romantic connections will intersect today in a very thrilling way

Since I’m on self-imposed extroverted probation, I think investing more for the sake of horoscope prediction would be both hypocritical and nonsensical. (Who’s the astrologer anyway? Venture capitalist part-timer?)

Looks like it is indeed the work of a venture capitalist part-timer.

Written by cthulhu

December 19, 2007 at 8:32 am

The Lost Whisper

Bill Murray: I have to be leaving. But I won’t let that come between us. OK?

Scarlett Johansson: OK. *gasp*


It would be hard for me to leave you.

It would be easier if you leave me.

At least for me.

Written by cthulhu

December 18, 2007 at 10:29 pm

Never the Twain Shall Meet

Your relationships are requiring more effort right now -- you need to invest more

Since I’m on self-imposed extroverted probation, I think investing more for the sake of horoscope prediction would be both hypocritical and nonsensical. (Who’s the astrologer anyway? Venture capitalist part-timer?)

Wishing her a happy anniversary (tomorrow) would be such an investment. A laudable effort during this stint of pessimism.

It won’t be much a happier time — not a sad one either — a reminder of past good time, and the reminiscent of sentimental recollection.

There’s nothing much to celebrate. It’s not a significant event of cherishable memory to date. It’s been whole month of hectic days and when I got allotted time of 3 full days of a time off — no house mate, no courses, no work, full 3 days to spend with her — she unfortunately had had to have this time of the whole month to be on her own. “To have a time of her own.” At [his] place, nonetheless.

Yes. She had issues.

No. That’s not selfish of her.

Rather, it’s selfish of me to get too excited with the overindulge anniversary celebration: the night out with the view of the urbanism gone haywire with shimmering artificial light that runs with power plant that uses USD100 per barrel oil; or a dinner at the fake Italian Pizzeria over the hill overlooking the cityscape with the menu of pretentious Italian flavour of cheap virgin olive oil and questionable ingredients. Then again, she hates Italian food — when it involves herbs, eggplants, olives, onions and not-so-fresh-tomatoes. She’s finicky with her gastronomic experience, and people wonder why I had a trouble to please certain aspect of the investment.

The day after, domestic animals slaughtered by the herd. Sanguine blood drenched the soil as the muscle convulsed painfully — denying death. Flesh gathered for the masses in commemoration of the willingness of an ancient prophet to sacrifice his son.

I bleed frustration as I willingly sacrifice myself.

Morning kisses, midnight embraces and sweet nothings in a text base may not be as analogue as the real thing that she revels [with] when she retreats at her safe haven of cohabitation. No wonder there’s no need of toleration over the need to commensurate the affection. It’s a reverie of immaterial. Come to think of it, why bother with the prolong poetic rhythm at unappreciated value.

Ah, but when it comes to that. I was labelled as callous on so many level. The scenario is, I barely can get in touch with all the restriction she imposed herself when she’s at [his] place. The best and long conversation usually involves confrontation or a token call out of boredom or when [he] isn’t available. This, not including when she-needs-to-talk occasion.

My call often treated as an interruption since it’s an intrusion of her space and needs: during her odd hour of sleeping time, during the rush hour to and fro from [his] place and her break hour during her work. Classic demonstration of my egocentric.

In summation, that’s one deficit investment.

I rather invest a whole lot more for my own tangible needs: Italian Mares wetsuit and diving mask; Italian Cressi buoyancy control device (BCD); Swedish Poseidon regulator and octopus; Bob Evans Force Fin scuba diving fin; Finnish Suunto gauge and dive computer; Californian CamelBak hydration pack, Canadian Arc’teryx softshell, San Francisco The North Face adventure gears, French Salomon running shoes, German Deuter backpack, German Leica camera and Cupertino Apple MacBook Pro.

Now that’s profitable tangible investment.

Relationship investment will be kept at the most minimal and economical effort. I’m back to limited celibacy. I got to think about myself since I got into this selfish business. I might been promoted to something more sinister just after she read this.

I can’t barely read between the line of these cliché phrases: “fine”, “whatever” and “nothing”. Because I’m dense like a brick.

Our path of safe haven is a reminder of our own priorities. She and her needs. Me with mine. Shall our path cross, a simple hi won’t hurt a fly.

Plethora of Oxymora

7 Oct 2007, 06:15pm, BTS
I’m not saying it’s my fault, but I didn’t point my finger at anyone else either.


I was drenched, tired, famish and dehydrated. Wasted hours on travelling time to and fro, broke fast on a crowded public transport, spent hours again on the road — only to have this memento scribbled on a piece of paper, somewhere in my wallet.

Only to notice that she returned back to the rendezvous point as I turned back home.

I failed to cherish the memory, you say?

This is a part of the memory.

I still keeping a log on my private journal.

But not since October.

A wasted effort.

Written by cthulhu

December 17, 2007 at 4:46 pm

Talking Only Me and You

Peter Bjorn and John (Featuring Victoria Bergsman) – Young Folks

Usually when things has gone this far
People tend to disappear
No one would surprise me unless you do


We used to talk only me and you.

It’s hard enough to conform with your privacy area of null communication (e.g. not at [his] place or in the dynamic geolocation of your erratic privacy) much less to get the convenient time to keep in touch with you (e.g. not during the gameplay or idiot box gawking).

To get a call for a spat — that is not what I have in mind.

Social Networking Feud (An Obiter Dictum from a Netizen)

In retrospect, you deleted mine first in the facebook.

Activity in myspace is almost next to nil.

No friendster, no you?

Delete. Delete. Delete.


Metadata gone.

Memory persist.

What’s the fuss?

Written by cthulhu

December 17, 2007 at 3:07 pm

Squiggly Life in a Can[t]

Wee hour is being in the lee of dream.

Skint and bored is not an impetus to tinkle.

Compensate the loss of one’s proximity with others.

It’s usually about me, but I would rather say otherwise.

This is about me — it’s 4:44 am — I’m tired.


Written by cthulhu

December 17, 2007 at 4:42 am