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.