Ever since the onset of the flu, the presence of about a netweight of 4 kilos worth of phlegm in my lungs and/or throat has literally made my every living breathing moment sound like a century-old tractor starting up.

Determined to correct this, I set about using a myriad of methods to help solve my situation, ranging from the proven (religiously taking my medication), to others slightly more controversial (ingesting lozenges every few seconds - I consume about a tube a day). After consuming about the twentieth lozenge in the similar amount of minutes, I decided to resume my occasional jogs around the block to "clear the lungs" - so to speak.

Stripping off my clothes a la Full Monty style (I shall not go into more details), and donning a P.E. tanktop and my faithul, battered pair of rugby shorts, I must confess I did get distracted by the nearby mirror, as it beckoned me closer with alluring images of my biceps (product of the ACS(I) rugby teams new Gym programme). A good 20 minutes later, and 60-odd different poses later, I regained my composure and managed to maneouveur myself down the lift and outside my condominium.

"Clearing the lungs" would be the overstatement of the year, with each breath of supposed "fresh air" I took in being as healthy as sucking in cigarette smoke through a McDonald's straw (I hate McDonald's straws), provoking my mind with images of my lungs curdling and turning black. Swiftly losing hope and motivation, and that bloody voice (oddly enough, it sounded like my bus driver*) at the back of my mind reminding me that it was the Hungry Ghost Festival. Giving the looming shadows behind me a furtive glance, I proceeded to run the fastest 1.6km lap I ever had in my life.

Bursting back into my room, hoarse, and drowning in exhaust, I struggled through a quick prayer, settled into my favourite chair and waited for Death's sweet embrace. Minutes quietly ticked by until I actually noticed I had (Heavens no!) MSN messages waiting for me. Driving a sharp rock in between my ribs to revive myself, my trembling fingers manage to reply to the sweet dear girl who actually wanted to talk to me. That nearly made my day that did, despite narrowly escaping the clutches of several hungry ghosts (I always did say I looked the tasty sort) and surviving severe lung cancer. That was until I just found out through no part of mine, she was "married" (Happiness never lasts long for Butlerman). You win some, you lose some?

*My bus driver is not exactly the decent sort. He looks like someone with unhealthy sexual ambitions, the sort of person your Pastoral Care teacher always warned that you would turn into, if you masturbated too extravantly (in short, becoming your Pastoral Care teacher). Pardon the language, but that is as vivid a description I could sum up. We never did strike it off with each other, ever since I overheard him butchering a Jolin Tsai song/overslept pass the drop off point for the 50th time.

"Lets hope Butlerman gets over this girl now..."
TO THE BATMOBILE

Having spent the majority of the afternoon listening to strangely-clad guys (and the odd girl) hack, cough, and spit into a microphone (beatboxing) for a pair of tickets to the Black Eyed Peas concert outside Cineleisure, I myself gave it a shot by coughing up my larynx several times, distributing my saliva and mucus in a 6 foot radius (flu), I then proceeded to take the train back home (correctly - thankfully) after what I deemed to be a successful day of work (which would constitute of standing around, ogling at bad hairstyles/girls, laughing at 14-year old Malay beatboxers, attempting to beatbox and being laughed at, infecting half of Singapore with the flu).

Starving, exhausted, and battered, I still managed to wrestle my father to the ground in a contest for male superiority, and more importantly, the right to use to computer (and claiming the World Wrestling Championship in the process). Actually, I just complained and sulked at the back of my room for a while till he buggered off (being the filial superhuman that I am).

Now somewhat stimulated, and my heart starting to pulsate once more, I enthusiastically carried out my customary procedures each time I use the computer (and every few minutes thereafter) -

1) Log into MSN and wait for several minutes for that highly improbable message from my friends.
2) Log into friendster. That 0.002% chance that I get a new friend request/message/testimonial is still a 0.002% chance.
3) Check my extremely frequented tagboard, "the Batforum", only to find nobody ever notices its there.
4) Check every other person I can think of's tagboard, and attempt to take heart from the fact it might just be the "Superhero anonymity" taking effect.
5) Crawl back under my rock.

Feeling insecure, socially deprived and inactive, I thus lose all handholds on sanity and decide to give myself a makeover with a pair of tweezers and that age-old bottle of Johnson's Baby Powder (which has been there since I was literally, a baby). Several pain-filled moments of accidental eye-prodding and breathing in moldy baby powder later, I emerge looking some monstrosity not unlike Michael Jackson. When the yellowish powder (spores?) finally did settle down and visibility was regained, you cannot help but let loose a scream vaguely remiscent of Sarah Brightman when confronted with the Phantom of the Opera. Not today however - with my tonsils sore from incessant coughing, I managed a croak and collapsed to the floor, clutching at my throat.

Deviating slightly from the topic of self-incurred surgery, to one that is totally unrelated. That being said, I would like to regurgitate the my past activities for the last 2-3 days. More specifically, it would be the talk I had with a girl on Friday night on the phone. Now, being the flamboyant casanova, I should not reveal the fact such an occasion has not occured within the last... half a year. Though I had no previous clue of she was, I confess (this once - Superheroes never disclose such personal information) "She's quite nice"*. Superheroes do crave the occasional indulgence in human interaction**.

*Note : She has not actually appeared since then. (Maybe the powder put her off?)
** Do not let this put you off.

boomdittybittyboomdittybottybam - I could have gotten those tickets.
TO THE BATMOBILE.

Midway through an extremely emotional week, my life nearly ended itself in one final, traumatic, climax.

I did not try to jump out the window - Instead, I entered one of my condominiums lift after yet another disastrous day of my very existence.
Unconsolable and weeping like a maniac at my own pathetic state of affairs, and belting out lyrics of "Bleeding Heart" by Acceptance (Kurt Cobain-style), I failed to notice the lift's tiny Post-it note claiming "Under repairs - Danger", now blown away (or ripped off by one of my many arch-nemesis').

What happened next was nothing unlike a runaway Dreamworld rollercoaster combined with the atomic bomb blasts of Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined. The very moment my finger left the 18th floor button, the beast of a lift lurched into life, rocketing skywards at roughly five floors per second, before grinding to a shuddering halt at the 7th floor, and dropping into freefall, past the ground floor, and revealing a dark, damp cavern filled with steam, valves and shadowy huddled figures (thus answering my questions of "Where does Mandarin Gardens get their endless supply of neandrathal-like security guards?").

5 panic-filled, knee-trembling minutes of pleading with a mechanic through a press-red-button-for-help system that obviously was outdated when Christianity was founded, I emerged, even more traumatised then before, and my shoes damp with urine.
With my life reaching its conclusion faster than I expected, I have come to realise and thus understand some part of Butlerman's life mysteries, before my demise takes that chance away (by my own hand, a disgruntled taxi driver, or my dog deciding to have a go its daily go at my leg and severing a major artery).

As it seems, each time a girl starts talking to me out of the blue (hell, even a guy, homosexual or not), my ego inflates exponentially, only to be shattered by something akin to a kick in the nuts, as after a periods of three days, I slowly fade out of existence once more. I have dubbed this "Butlerman's 5-day-or-so Free Trial"...
Ladies and gentleman, step right up to recieve your free copy...

TO THE BATMOBILE

Ladies, fear not - for what I shall be discussing today (in this journal which seems to be slowly, yet surely, drifting away from the whole superhero-saves-the-day theme, as I journey through puberty, and my ramblings get that little bit more decipherable) shall not be the base desire of every guy I know, but sex as in gender.

More specifically so, the traits and characteristics of the male gender (a deeply controversial topic that I am sure would leave many of you in open-mouth wonder, or in seething hatred and having the carnal desire to plunge a steak-knife between my shoulder blades after crudely circumcising me with a pair of pliers. Exciting, is it not?).

Please appreciate this, for I am wasting valuable time which I could be using to study for my Social Studies and/or Chemistry test tomorrow. Though it does seem to be a greater waste of time taking the bloody tests in the first place, knowing fully that I'd probably get higher marks by getting zero than what I'd normally get anyway. The essay, to be done after school, included.
I could however, offer pitifully pathetic excuses such as "I was feeling depressed, and needed to amuse myself by making myself look like a fool to others, thus deriving sick, twisted and masochistic pleasure by embarrasing myself." However, I had rather not. Who knows how such confessions may come back to haunt me?

Males - the part of the human race that kept top scientists confounded for so long, and kept them wondering which species evolved into which. We now know for certain however, that that apes so clearly evolved from the male population (and butch girls who do not shave), especially if you have spent similar amounts of time that I have done, studying each member of my class in great detail, one horrific characteristic at a time.

From multiple Chinamen who spit every living breathing moment of their lives, to that sexy guy in my class who could never get a math question correct (yours truly), and that Scottish bastard... All them Scottish bastards anyway, (I have never liked the Scots. On of my many great failings) I now truly understand why girls never seem particularly interested in any guy. Well, not just any guy - Me.

Me. Anybody who knows me well enough would realise that the topic was going to narrow down to me sooner or later. After spending most of the whole day wallowing in a puddle of tears, blood, vomit, and extreme amounts of self-pity (Oh - do not cringe, this is mostly an exaggeration. Mostly, anyway), and taking sneaky glimpses at the oh-so-inviting window, I decided to occupy my otherwise suicidal thoughts by writing nonsense. Hence this journal entry. Thank god us superheroes are a notoriously hard-to-kill bunch.

One observation I would like to make though, would be how every guy I know seems to put lyrics with references to sex/love/girlfriends (myself included with the occasional quote from System of a Downs "Violent Pornography" or Killer Mike's "A.D.I.D.A.S. - All day I dream about sex". But come on - they're cool songs!) in bid to attract members of the opposite sex. Unfortunately enough, in theirs, as well as my case, nothing ever seems to result from it. Maybe it is just the wrong song. Naaah - couldn't be.

Another hour of deep soul-searching, and finding absolutely nothing but more questions (and a hell lot of self-pity) has gone by, and I find myself none the wiser (especially after blowing an hours worth of study-time. Butlerman you stupid fool, you.)

To the person who takes notice of the suicidal intentions so carefully hidden within this blog (deceitful, am I not?), take heart from the fact my window has a grill on it. You would be better off writing my essay for me or helping me cheat for the tests tomorrow.

TO THE BATMOBILE

I spy with my little eye, something starting with an "F" in the near future.

That being said, it literally is an "F", scribbled next to my chinese oral examination marks (no lewd comments please). Having learned a total of dribbleshit's worth of Chinese whatsoever within the last six months due to a total lack of comprehension of what is being tested in the Chinese O-levels new syllabus, I was recently forced to partake in an oral conversation.

Knowing all too well about my chinese speaking capabilities, I desperately turned to my class' chinese scholars tiny English-Chinese (and vice-versa) pocket electronic dictionaries. Unsurprisingly, it filled my head with rubbish that would not be needed whatsoever, be in in any examination nor real life, which explained why nobody actually buy the bloody things. Even before I tried, I knew that this sort of thing would have a limited utility. How frequently I would wish to say "I love the springtime - However it would soon be winter", and "Kite-flying is really fun, I wish to fly more kites" in Mandarin in Singapore would be questionable.

I must admit, the changing of the syllabus is a noble idea, but what I would like to learn (and thus be able to use) would be totally different. Take, for example, how useful it would be, to convey to the fiercest toilet attendant in Singapore (who conveniently plies her trade at my family's most visited hawker centre), an ex-professional wrestler, and totally illiterate in English, not to crane her head to watch me relieve myself. To assure her that I would not dribble on the tiles nor steal an urinal cake would be a blessing I do not have (I fear any attempt I try to communicate using my limited vocabulary would only result in her giving my kidneys a karate chop that would fell an enraged gorilla.

After stuttering through most of the passage in the reading segment of the examination, and (hopefully, very cleverly) dodging most of the questions she hurled at me during the conversation bit, what crippled me was when she asked me how long I have been studying Chinese. I can say it did not do wonders for my confidence.

It did take me the better part of the holidays to get over it, and a large portion of my wallet's contents (Happiness is expensive these days). This also probably being my (very lame) excuse of the lack of work achieved during the 5 day rest period. The most I have achieved within the holiday break would arguably be to watch Willy Wonka and his Oompa Loompas dance around like poofs. Though I would like to confess that staring at several (one, in particular) wet dreams while waiting in Lido would be one of the better memories I have commited to mind (I have repented since then - "Forgiven, but not forgotten" as they say). Once an ACSian, always an ACSian?

"Can you say 'Brainwashing'"?
TO THE BATMOBILE

Andy Roddick, Roger Federer, Andre Agassi, and the russian pornstars. All of them masters of the wonderful game of tennis.

Ah, tennis - a gentlemanly sport, a game of finesse, and technique.

A game, which sadly, I cannot grasp.

With my doubles partner occasionally being forced to run off the court screaming for help, amidst my wild swinging racket/serves (of which I proudly boast, to be improving ever-so-well), and the far wall and/or net taking punishment like never before (though strangely enough, I hardly got any of the balls within the proper area), I decided to let my feelings known in the most familiar way. Hence the angst-filled profanities hurled, echoing around Stevens Rd.

It has been an eventful day however - even for Butlerman's superhuman standards.

You would find it so if you stood next to what seemed to be an ex-Middle-Eastern republican guard (sorry, too much "Lost") cum professional wrestler in an Army tanktop, complete with ActionMan jungle camouflage face paint. Best of all would be the fact that he carried a backpack that looked squarish and (to me, in particular. No one else seemed bothered) vaguely bomb-shaped. With the train rattling and the sharp end of the bag (BOMB!) reminding me of its presence every few seconds by giving my kidneys a few jerks and nudges, my bladder was on the verge of giving way. Twenty, panic-filled seconds later, where I was always ready to throw myself underneath some poor auntie's feet the moment his fingers twitched, I burst out of the carriage screaming into Dhoby Gaut, ran down to the next carriage and hid behind the expansive girth of a caucasian man, making preparations to sacrifice himself before me (Superhero benefits and all). Total Defence indeed.

"If you do meet me along the street, do not hesitate to caress my thighs and buttocks." - Little Britain.
Happy National Day(?)
TO THE BATMOBILE

Recently, while scanning through the worthless trash thats written in the Newpaper while juggling my file, schoolbag and about ten million other things (Superhero stuff, you know), I came across something relatively unknown to me (especially - me). Enter the world of "Celebrity Bloggers", where several ladies have managed to throw themselves in a lil' spotlight by flashing some flesh, sprouting several pages worth of nonsense (which made the Newpaper pale in comparison; think "Penis Sizes" - then think, "What the F**K?").

The ladies in question..? I forgot. Due to the untimely arrival at my destination and a frantic scramble to gather up my equipment, all the while furiously strumming my "air-guitar" along to the tunes of System of a Down and looking (bloody brilliantly, if I say so myself) sexy in my new hairstyle.

Desperate for some publicity after having guarded Siglap safe from various groups of scoundrels, and doing my best to stick my ACS badge into every Victoria-High student that I come across, I was prepared to powder myself into oblivion with extra mascara, makeup, eyeliner (whatever girls use on themselves these days?), and bare a few explicit details to make up for lost viewership.

Do not be surprised to find that your next visit to TO THE BATMOBILE would require parental approval... Things might heat up slightly around here...

(Disclaimer : All above threats were not to be taken seriously. I would not want my dear audience to die of shock and/or go blind anytime soon, would I...?)

My fastest blog yet -
TO THE BATMOBILE