On the █, a fire broke out on the █ floor of a unit in our block. Ultimately, I don't think anyone was hurt, and it didn't seem a big deal in totality.
I just wanted to come here and piss and moan about how nonchalant and complacent we as a society seem to have become in the safety of Singapore. Admittedly, I might've not felt the same alarm I did had I not been holed up in my bedroom with the aircon on, and smelled obnoxiously thick smoke all of a sudden. I took a whiff at the air coming out of the air con, smelled that same smoke, and panicked like hell, thinking my compressor had caught fire or something. Bursting out my room door, I smelled that same smoke, albeit even much heavier, and I actually calmed down, thinking it was the haze that we've been warned was coming having came early. I suppose, to anyone not having been in an air con room, they'd have thought the same thing and dismissed it.
Although, with my outburst, my parents got more involved, which was when they noticed a lot of our neighbours from all floors on the walkways watching something. That's legitimately how we found out that there was a fire on our block. The neighbour directly adjacent to us didn't seem aware, so I rang their doorbell a few times and even shouted in. Eventually, the only person home, a teenage boy, answered, and that's when he got the news of a fire. Even then, everyone seemed more bemused by the fact that there was a fire moreso than panicked. I told my family to get their things ready in case we needed to get the hell out of dodge, and I wasn't taken very seriously.
The firefighters were called and the situation was contained quite quickly, although not before a lot of us were ordered to evacuate. In hindsight, I was praised by my sister for being the first to realise the situation was dire, and the only one who wanted to be ready for an evac. But it just makes me upset more than anything.
It's a sentiment I've harboured for more than a decade, born from the time I was doing security in slavery; for as invaluable as the relative safety of Singapore is, I despise how that safety conditions complacency in its citizens, to the point where very real threats become almost a bemusing joke to them. I kinda want to believe that humans have been hard wired through billions of years of evolution to react strongly to threats, and one of the most primitive threats would be a fucking fire. I don't know how, but it somehow seems that just a few decades in this plush environment has somehow overridden billions of years of conditioning. I hate how nonchalant everybody seemed about the fire, in the same way I despised everyone who scoffed and scorned at being inconvenienced by a security check. Look, I'm not doing this for fun; if you think you're better off without me, I can go home and sleep, and you can live with the knowledge of you being the one person in power having deemed my presence unnecessary if something does go wrong. Would it have been such a big deal to just grab your phone and MAYBE your wallet and getting out before being told to? I just don't get people. I really don't.
But perhaps more than that, I fucking despise how used to the smell of smoke we have become as a culture and society. I've heard more than a few people say that they didn't panic because they thought someone was burning offerings, which is a more than common practice here. That, and heavy haze is like a tri–annual event or something, and we just have to put up with it. I used to find it novel how Wally, a character in Pokémon RSE, had to move from a city to a quiet countryside with better air for his health, but now I find myself in his shoes. Granted, I know I'm being coddled hardcore as a Singaporean, and I know our air quality is much better than... other places where people conjugate, but sometimes it still feels to me like the air is vile and hostile, and I never feel near 100% because of it. And now that it's the "Seventh Month" of the Lunar Calendar, people are almost literally setting money on fire, including my own family, and it has just made breathing so much more painful and laborious than it needs to be.
Solutions? You must be a new reader; I've none. I'm just pissing and moaning.
Sunday, 30 August 2026
Saturday, 23 May 2026
2026-5-23
Things have happened and they're all heavy enough to warrant a lengthy writeup on their own, but I'm so tired, it's hot, blah blah, you already know the usual excuses.
I... also think I've somewhat come to fear writing or talking about my own problems and feelings. It feels as if if I were to be 100% candid with my deepest and darkest emotions, that I'd just physically unravel in real time. It's... an odd thing to try to describe, but I think the panic and anxiety I feel every sleepless night I lay on my bed is a much more honest and vulnerable me. The most awful and bleak thoughts and fears haunt me then. As I am right now, awake and conscious, that self feels so distant as though a myth, even though I know full well it'd come back around if I let it.
I've always struggled to explain to others why I'm upset and depressed. And because of that difficulty in rationalising my emotions to other people, I too have the exact same difficulty rationalising—and therefore believing—that I have clinical, treatable depression that has been experienced by many others and extensively studied. Logically, I don't doubt that I've depression; the symptoms might as well be my biography, and I've had a few mental health professionals reassure me of my own sadness. I just somehow can't believe I'm sad, even though I'm feeling all these overwhelming feelings and harbouring thoughts that I'd struggle to put coherent words to.
Maybe I'm just extraordinarily sensitive, so the things that most people experience and find no more an annoyance or inconvenience greatly affect me. Maybe I've just never come across someone who believed me when I told them I was in pain, and now I've conflated the ignorance of others with incoherence on my part. Maybe I'm just fucking autistic, and I'm saying all the "quiet parts" of life out loud that no one really has a solution to. Maybe I've made too many well–meaning people feel obligated to listen to me, only to feel inept at not having solutions or even words of consolation, and now I feel like sharing my thoughts is akin to somehow polluting the brains of others. I don't know.
Sometimes it just feels as if my soul were crying somehow, like right now, and I don't even know where to begin taking that knot of feelings apart to begin understanding what the fuck is wrong, let alone share with another person, a rare understanding soul.
Earlier this month, my dad had a mini heart attack and was hospitalised. It was very reminiscent of something my mother had experienced some six years prior, so this time round there's much less panic and uncertainty involved. To our surprise, my dad, a Malaysian by Nationality still despite spending well over 3/4 of his life here in Singapore, has MediSave savings that can be used to offset the cost of his treatment and stay. Life has since resumed as though the heart attack had never happened, though my sis will have to fork out over a thousand SGD to cover the rest of the bill because I'm a fucking useless burden waste of resources and a strain on the people who love and care for me the most. I'm supposed to be working with my therapist, Jean, regarding all this negative self talk, but she's away for the whole month of May.
I've also been "fired" from my volunteer work at the cat shelter. I know that sounds disastrous in writing, but it really isn't all that bad for a few reasons. One, I've heard horror stories of the owner being a psychotic bitch from more than one volunteer, and have even "seen" it happen to someone else for myself. Imagine calling the cops on a volunteer from a heated argument caused by a lapse in communication! Second, while I'd normally be beating myself up for being not good enough, stupid, slow, etc. to even be free labour, I've had someone I've worked closest to, Vera, reassure me that I'm completely fine. This, coupled with the owner's insanity, makes me not doubt my own performance. Third, I had been nearing the end of my three–month obligation period anyway, and I had been deliberating stopping at the end of the month for the reasons stated above. I say deliberate because, while the work is unglamourous and the owner is a Newton's Cradle of firecrackers and nukes, the cats are genuinely lovely, and I've inevitably become emotionally attached to a few of them. Jean asked me on two occasions what finding meaning in my job means, and I ultimately couldn't answer her. I still can't, but I think I can describe it a little better now, albeit only with a quote from GTA V: "Here's the problem: I don't know what I want. It's a bit, well, like pornography, or a perfect turd; I can't quite describe it, but I'll know it when I see it." And working with cats is the closest thing I've ever felt to "it" in the years since I pronounced my dream of working at Mazda dead.
So anyway, right now, I'm able to look in the mirror and say that I'm proud of myself. I'm proud that I took an uncomfortable chance at mingling with society. I'm proud of the work that I've done while I'm there. I'm proud of having met kind people who have done more for me than they'll probably ever realise. I'm even proud of myself for having a controlled snap on my last day, almost like a fuse, where I essentially said, "this is enough abuse; I'm out of here." I had a good cry on the way home, and I just somehow know that this is one of those things that I'll have a good cry about and then move on, instead of the fucked up things that will stay with me for a lifetime. Hell, I might even get a part time job at this rate.
Still, it's not all sunshine and flowers. I wish I got to properly say goodbye to the cats, and I even promised Ben Ben extra treats the day I left, and I never got to fulfil that promise. Even though I didn't do it out of expectation of reciprocation, I'm still nonetheless deeply hurt by the fact that none of the other volunteers reached out to me to ask if I'm okay, when I reached out to someone else that got "fired" like me prior. But most of all perhaps is the fact that, throughout every phase of my life, I've been met with either people clearly not right in the head, or just people hostile towards me for no reason I can discern. Having met with yet another unpleasant person and experience at this volunteer gig has really discouraged me from wanting to put myself out there again. Again, this is not something I can really explain at all, but I just get this feeling that so, so many people in society are down with some sort of illness of the mind, and it's something that feels manufacturered and baked into our lifestyles and expectations. I know I did my best. I know I did good work. I know I wasn't causing problems for anyone. I know I was amicible. And yet, I'm "fired" anyway, with nothing to show for it. There'll forever be a part of me that begrudges the fact that I'm the one on medications to adjust to this sick world, and not the other way around. It's an arrogance I've had for a very long time now, and I don't super know where it came from. I just "know" I'm in the right. I "know" I'm the only sane person in a room full of insane people. But if I'm the only sane person in the room, then does that make me the sane one, or the insane one?
I'm writing all this in hopes that this counts as "processing" a feeling and event, and that my brain will henceforth let this go and not instead make me pursue more extreme avenues.
I... also think I've somewhat come to fear writing or talking about my own problems and feelings. It feels as if if I were to be 100% candid with my deepest and darkest emotions, that I'd just physically unravel in real time. It's... an odd thing to try to describe, but I think the panic and anxiety I feel every sleepless night I lay on my bed is a much more honest and vulnerable me. The most awful and bleak thoughts and fears haunt me then. As I am right now, awake and conscious, that self feels so distant as though a myth, even though I know full well it'd come back around if I let it.
I've always struggled to explain to others why I'm upset and depressed. And because of that difficulty in rationalising my emotions to other people, I too have the exact same difficulty rationalising—and therefore believing—that I have clinical, treatable depression that has been experienced by many others and extensively studied. Logically, I don't doubt that I've depression; the symptoms might as well be my biography, and I've had a few mental health professionals reassure me of my own sadness. I just somehow can't believe I'm sad, even though I'm feeling all these overwhelming feelings and harbouring thoughts that I'd struggle to put coherent words to.
Maybe I'm just extraordinarily sensitive, so the things that most people experience and find no more an annoyance or inconvenience greatly affect me. Maybe I've just never come across someone who believed me when I told them I was in pain, and now I've conflated the ignorance of others with incoherence on my part. Maybe I'm just fucking autistic, and I'm saying all the "quiet parts" of life out loud that no one really has a solution to. Maybe I've made too many well–meaning people feel obligated to listen to me, only to feel inept at not having solutions or even words of consolation, and now I feel like sharing my thoughts is akin to somehow polluting the brains of others. I don't know.
Sometimes it just feels as if my soul were crying somehow, like right now, and I don't even know where to begin taking that knot of feelings apart to begin understanding what the fuck is wrong, let alone share with another person, a rare understanding soul.
Earlier this month, my dad had a mini heart attack and was hospitalised. It was very reminiscent of something my mother had experienced some six years prior, so this time round there's much less panic and uncertainty involved. To our surprise, my dad, a Malaysian by Nationality still despite spending well over 3/4 of his life here in Singapore, has MediSave savings that can be used to offset the cost of his treatment and stay. Life has since resumed as though the heart attack had never happened, though my sis will have to fork out over a thousand SGD to cover the rest of the bill because I'm a fucking useless burden waste of resources and a strain on the people who love and care for me the most. I'm supposed to be working with my therapist, Jean, regarding all this negative self talk, but she's away for the whole month of May.
I've also been "fired" from my volunteer work at the cat shelter. I know that sounds disastrous in writing, but it really isn't all that bad for a few reasons. One, I've heard horror stories of the owner being a psychotic bitch from more than one volunteer, and have even "seen" it happen to someone else for myself. Imagine calling the cops on a volunteer from a heated argument caused by a lapse in communication! Second, while I'd normally be beating myself up for being not good enough, stupid, slow, etc. to even be free labour, I've had someone I've worked closest to, Vera, reassure me that I'm completely fine. This, coupled with the owner's insanity, makes me not doubt my own performance. Third, I had been nearing the end of my three–month obligation period anyway, and I had been deliberating stopping at the end of the month for the reasons stated above. I say deliberate because, while the work is unglamourous and the owner is a Newton's Cradle of firecrackers and nukes, the cats are genuinely lovely, and I've inevitably become emotionally attached to a few of them. Jean asked me on two occasions what finding meaning in my job means, and I ultimately couldn't answer her. I still can't, but I think I can describe it a little better now, albeit only with a quote from GTA V: "Here's the problem: I don't know what I want. It's a bit, well, like pornography, or a perfect turd; I can't quite describe it, but I'll know it when I see it." And working with cats is the closest thing I've ever felt to "it" in the years since I pronounced my dream of working at Mazda dead.
So anyway, right now, I'm able to look in the mirror and say that I'm proud of myself. I'm proud that I took an uncomfortable chance at mingling with society. I'm proud of the work that I've done while I'm there. I'm proud of having met kind people who have done more for me than they'll probably ever realise. I'm even proud of myself for having a controlled snap on my last day, almost like a fuse, where I essentially said, "this is enough abuse; I'm out of here." I had a good cry on the way home, and I just somehow know that this is one of those things that I'll have a good cry about and then move on, instead of the fucked up things that will stay with me for a lifetime. Hell, I might even get a part time job at this rate.
Still, it's not all sunshine and flowers. I wish I got to properly say goodbye to the cats, and I even promised Ben Ben extra treats the day I left, and I never got to fulfil that promise. Even though I didn't do it out of expectation of reciprocation, I'm still nonetheless deeply hurt by the fact that none of the other volunteers reached out to me to ask if I'm okay, when I reached out to someone else that got "fired" like me prior. But most of all perhaps is the fact that, throughout every phase of my life, I've been met with either people clearly not right in the head, or just people hostile towards me for no reason I can discern. Having met with yet another unpleasant person and experience at this volunteer gig has really discouraged me from wanting to put myself out there again. Again, this is not something I can really explain at all, but I just get this feeling that so, so many people in society are down with some sort of illness of the mind, and it's something that feels manufacturered and baked into our lifestyles and expectations. I know I did my best. I know I did good work. I know I wasn't causing problems for anyone. I know I was amicible. And yet, I'm "fired" anyway, with nothing to show for it. There'll forever be a part of me that begrudges the fact that I'm the one on medications to adjust to this sick world, and not the other way around. It's an arrogance I've had for a very long time now, and I don't super know where it came from. I just "know" I'm in the right. I "know" I'm the only sane person in a room full of insane people. But if I'm the only sane person in the room, then does that make me the sane one, or the insane one?
I'm writing all this in hopes that this counts as "processing" a feeling and event, and that my brain will henceforth let this go and not instead make me pursue more extreme avenues.
Saturday, 21 February 2026
An Update
To my surprise, this blog actually gets some readers, with each post well into the double digits in views. I get that on the internet these days, those are microscopic numbers. But it's precisely because those numbers are microscopic that each view feels... human, instead of an incomprehensible number. It really brings me back to my childhood days, when the internet was more self–expressive and ran by more than five megacorporations. I may not know how any of you found this, but I'm thankful for each view on this blog where a weird dude writes weird shit about a half–baked racing game with very little context on a dinosaur of a platform (or maybe you're just laughing at me making a fool of myself?).
I initially started writing GT7 car reviews here as a way to host images and to proofread my crap before posting it to the Car of the Week thread on GTPlanet Forums, which I also ran until my declining health forced me to end regular activities. I never advertised my blog nor Car of the Week because I myself hate ads and plugs, with the copium of, "if my work really is that good, the word will spread by itself and people will return on their own." I don't know if this is just a ritual feeling for artists without an overinflated ego or if my work has just never been any good, but I always felt like my work was just very casual garbage and I had hit a ceiling in how much I could improve on my own. I've always wished that I could describe how a car feels like Tsuchiya Keiichi could, or write with the attention–robbing wit of Chris Harris. But I'm just a fucking idiot with no background playing pretend in a video game, and I've always struggled to be satisfied with that no matter how much time and thought I put into my writing. In a way, that can be its own selling point: I don't have to fear souring working relations or satisfying sponsorship obligations; I can go full nuclear on cars I despise. But I also don't super know how to cite sources, nor do I have the clout to ask companies for more information when I need them. While that might be excusable for a casual, non–profit piece of writing, it's always bugged me regardless.
Another brand of copium I huffed was that COTW was "just" casual fun with a tight–knit group who met up regularly, and my written car reviews was a way for me to try putting a piece of myself and my weird brain out in public space more, both of which stemmed from advice I got from an excellent therapist some seven years ago in bid to overcome some isolation. This blog was born from that very same initiative, actually, hence the super weird URL (I'm not a very smart or poetic person, as you can probably already tell). To be completely honest, the thought of putting myself out in the public eye still scares me. I don't think the human brain is wired to handle all the attention and notoriety the world wide web can garner for one person, and so maybe somewhere in the back of my mind, I've somewhat wished against having more attention and participants in COTW. Having dealt with three toxic, immature man–children in COTW only furthered that fear, though I'd like to think I haven't actually acted on that fear.
This post was meant to be an update for the 20 or so of you who visit this blog regularly, though my tired and unfocused brain has caused me to ramble and meander. What I really wanted to say is this: there likely won't be many — if any — car reviews here any more because I've shuttered COTW due to my declining health, and I'm thankful for those of you who visit this blog. I'll probably still try to put some of myself out in public eye here on this blog, though it'd most likely be melancholic, dark, depressing thoughts I deem are palatable enough to put out publicly.
In the meantime, I haven't stopped driving virtually. I've been taking part in Spec Racing Club's Coffee Break lobbies, which typically have limits on power, mass, and tyre compounds, but is otherwise a free–for–all with open settings. Some of the pictures you've been seeing in this post are from those races, actually! It helps massively stepping down from a role of organiser to "just" a casual participant, and not having to hold myself to an arbitrary standard to feel worthy of writing about the cars definitely helps! I'm having enormous fun tinkering with cars and exploring their tuning potential instead of how they are bone stock. I'm trying to keep somewhat sharp despite my health by racing at least once a week. And, because this isn't my own thing, I feel comfortable plugging it.
Super bombshell of an ending here, it's been too long since I've written regularly that I've forgotten how to do this.
I initially started writing GT7 car reviews here as a way to host images and to proofread my crap before posting it to the Car of the Week thread on GTPlanet Forums, which I also ran until my declining health forced me to end regular activities. I never advertised my blog nor Car of the Week because I myself hate ads and plugs, with the copium of, "if my work really is that good, the word will spread by itself and people will return on their own." I don't know if this is just a ritual feeling for artists without an overinflated ego or if my work has just never been any good, but I always felt like my work was just very casual garbage and I had hit a ceiling in how much I could improve on my own. I've always wished that I could describe how a car feels like Tsuchiya Keiichi could, or write with the attention–robbing wit of Chris Harris. But I'm just a fucking idiot with no background playing pretend in a video game, and I've always struggled to be satisfied with that no matter how much time and thought I put into my writing. In a way, that can be its own selling point: I don't have to fear souring working relations or satisfying sponsorship obligations; I can go full nuclear on cars I despise. But I also don't super know how to cite sources, nor do I have the clout to ask companies for more information when I need them. While that might be excusable for a casual, non–profit piece of writing, it's always bugged me regardless.
Another brand of copium I huffed was that COTW was "just" casual fun with a tight–knit group who met up regularly, and my written car reviews was a way for me to try putting a piece of myself and my weird brain out in public space more, both of which stemmed from advice I got from an excellent therapist some seven years ago in bid to overcome some isolation. This blog was born from that very same initiative, actually, hence the super weird URL (I'm not a very smart or poetic person, as you can probably already tell). To be completely honest, the thought of putting myself out in the public eye still scares me. I don't think the human brain is wired to handle all the attention and notoriety the world wide web can garner for one person, and so maybe somewhere in the back of my mind, I've somewhat wished against having more attention and participants in COTW. Having dealt with three toxic, immature man–children in COTW only furthered that fear, though I'd like to think I haven't actually acted on that fear.
This post was meant to be an update for the 20 or so of you who visit this blog regularly, though my tired and unfocused brain has caused me to ramble and meander. What I really wanted to say is this: there likely won't be many — if any — car reviews here any more because I've shuttered COTW due to my declining health, and I'm thankful for those of you who visit this blog. I'll probably still try to put some of myself out in public eye here on this blog, though it'd most likely be melancholic, dark, depressing thoughts I deem are palatable enough to put out publicly.
In the meantime, I haven't stopped driving virtually. I've been taking part in Spec Racing Club's Coffee Break lobbies, which typically have limits on power, mass, and tyre compounds, but is otherwise a free–for–all with open settings. Some of the pictures you've been seeing in this post are from those races, actually! It helps massively stepping down from a role of organiser to "just" a casual participant, and not having to hold myself to an arbitrary standard to feel worthy of writing about the cars definitely helps! I'm having enormous fun tinkering with cars and exploring their tuning potential instead of how they are bone stock. I'm trying to keep somewhat sharp despite my health by racing at least once a week. And, because this isn't my own thing, I feel comfortable plugging it.
Super bombshell of an ending here, it's been too long since I've written regularly that I've forgotten how to do this.
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