Hey hey hey. I’m actually blogging a mere two weeks after my last post. Which in essence means I’m really bored, but not bored enough to cross the threshold that is my high mugging activation energy. Its been almost one month into the start of school, and already reported sightings of muggers in the canteen are stressing me out.
It all began one harmless break. I had moved off to buy myself a nice cup of teh bing and enjoy a quiet reading of my reader’s digest when the glint of a GC entered the corner of my eye. Turning around I soon realised that
The muggers, the slackers, the cleaners, the store 5 Auntie, and even the Seven Eleven guy were all poring over notes and tutorials like there was no tomorrow.
(Of course why they’d choose to mug on the last day of their existence is a conundrum on the order of why someone would play dota minutes after fracturing their wrist.)
Staggering away to my classroom, I was even more horrified to discover that Joshua’s physics notes were totally foreign to me, and that walking into a class and sitting next to the hottest girl there does not constitute Super Positioning. Only the fact that Royce Yap still plays DOTA pulled me back from the brink of insanity. While recovering from the shock, I quickly penned out a mugging schedule that is now sitting on my desk like a loathsome wart that refuses to go away.
Sigh, off to Superpositioning 1 then. Tata Folks.
To the multitude of people who seem to be falling sick: Get well soon and please don’t pass it to me.
02JAM is a fun game. Go play it
Ode to a One Arm Fracture
The time has come, the walrus said,
to speak of many things.
of broken wrists and slings.
This story starts, as stories do,
with one boy born without a clue,
and with a brain so bird brained that,
it flew off with a coo.
This cannot be, this would not do,
why born this fool, this wretched pest.
On so on his birth, I must confess,
we shipped the twit off to the zoo.
For years he stood there like a stone,
As people called him “Dumbblock Wood”
But sticks and stones might break his bones,
but words he never understood.
Years went by, they passed so fast,
the creature grew into a teen.
Till one day, he escaped at last,
shocking no one whom he passed,
Albeit though, on Halloween.
He walked for years on forest track,
one step forward, one step back.
Why this way’s a mystery,
though knowing him, I must suspect,
his two braincells could not agree.
Eventually, the sea he reached,
he lay there like a monster leech.
But as he stoned there on the beach,
whale activists dashed into reach.
They fought and fought with all their will,
to push him back into the sea,
but as they did, he scrapped his knee,
and caused the regions first oil spill.
He went on to join 01 Scouts,
(a manly lot, there is no doubt).
We watered him through rainless drought,
and waited for the boy to sprout.
It was no trouble, we did not mind,
though he did not have a mind,
The rain would fall, the sun would shine,
and it would creep up like a vine
One day then, that fateful one,
we decided we would have some fun.
And so we left for eastern shores,
eager for cycling galore
But the stupid twit, he went on strike
he did not want to ride a bike,
Roller blading, that he liked,
and so he did, the moron tyke.
He bladed slow, we cycled fast,
he grabbed on to us as we passed,
Gave a yank and then zoomed past,
he screamed out like a little girl,
slipped and fell in one big twirl,
and so his arm went in a cast.
So boys and girls, please listen well,
Heed the warning tale I tell,
Unless you number one brain cell,
(This description should least ring a bell)
Or wish an early long farewell,
Or dwell for months in one-armed hell,
I advise you not to follow Royce,
His imbecilic obtuse choice,
For that at least, we’ll all rejoice.