“Every Morning,” one of my all time favourite morning songs despite its bitter lyrics, by Sugar Ray plays… “Every morning there’s a halo hangin’ from the corner of my girlfriend’s four post bed. I know it’s not mine but I’ll see if I can use it for the weekend or a one night stand. Couldn’t understand, how to work it out. Once again as predicted left my broken heart open and you ripped it out…”

I noticed something I found a bit unusual last night (correction: morning) when I was heading off to bed. I heard the birds singing outside. I am used to hearing them singing early in the morning at the times I decide to retire to slumberland, usually at around 4 in the morning. I was on my way to hit the hay at around half past 2 in the morning last “night” and the birds outside had already begun rehearsals for their morning chorus. Although I must admit that hearing them outside does cheer me up, it’s not ideal hearing them when my eyes are heavy and my body clock, in its confused state, is screaming “bed, bed, bed, bed.” Throw in the additional facts that I don’t sleep much as it is, and the fact that I’m an extremely light sleeper and as strange as it sounds, getting to sleep becomes a bit of a challenge. I mean, if a marshmallow fell onto the floor in my room, I’d probably wake from the cushioned thud it produced. Not that there are ever any marshmallows falling in my room. Nope, that would be Heaven.

The thing I dislike about my room is that it faces west, meaning that in the mornings, unless it’s really bright outside, my room remains in the throws of darkness cast from the previous night. The birds’ singing just doesn’t have the same effect in a well shaded room. Sometimes, the sun outside is so bright in the morning that it pierces through my windows and this is always a good start to the day. A sun drenched room and morning choir is a big bonus welcome compared with the music I used to have to wake up to in the mornings when my new neighbours moved in. There was a time where I’d wake up to the sound of Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time” blasting in through the walls, stirring me from my restless sleep. It startled me enough the first time for me to do the clichéd thing, which is to smother my head with a pillow, in a vain attempt to isolate myself from the din. Did I mention this occurred every morning for 4 mornings in a row? It was enough of a scarring incident to make me detest American teeny bop music for life.

To get them [the neighbours] back for that inexcusable stunt, I occasionally give them a taste of my own tangible volumes. Sometimes when no one is in my house in the evening and I’m in the mood, I plug my guitar in for at least a whole hour with the amplifier set at a quarter to maximum. Let’s see their walls surpress that! I guess it could be an even bigger disturbance, but realistically, who goes to bed at 11pm? ;)
Yesterday at work, someone said something strangely funny to me. We were discussing exercise and one of the guys told me that he needed to work out more at the gym so that he can be more built like me. This triggered off laughter on my part and when I was able to conduct myself again, I realised that he was serious. “Huh?!” That statement couldn’t cater more iron to the fact that I have been inside of a gym maybe only 3 times in my whole life. Plus, I don’t lift weights. The only exercise I ever got was courtesy of my running shoes and sometimes a rowing machine and it had been months since I’d done any of those. My appearance to date has been courtesy of Mum’s cooking, almost entirely because I stopped going out jogging when it started getting colder during our illustrious winter. While I’m not weight-conscious, neither too scrawny or too fat, I find it quite laughable that anyone would aspire to be more like me in that respect! It’s comments like these that don’t help in my quest to get more exercise. I should start jogging again fairly soon despite what people say, before my stamina for even walking quickly dwindles.

I can always tell when it’s mid-January because this is about the time I get friends reminding me that my birthday is coming up. I can also tell when it’s early February because I get friends asking me what I’m doing for my birthday. For the past 2 years I’ve celebrated them joint B-day style with H since hers is a few days away from mine. It was only recently that she healed pretty much completely from the tumbles she had taken from the ice skating a few weeks ago. The day after the skating she went into work wearing a short-sleeved shirt, revealing the bluey-purple bruised undersides of her arms. This provoked reactions from the other office dwellers who were concerned about her being in an abusive relationship.

H: Me, even in a relationship? Hah, yeah right!

She was sore all over and had trouble sitting still. Gauging from some of the traumatic falls she took, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh when she joked that she felt those hips of hers were no longer child-bearing.

It took a bit of persuasion to convince her to celebrate her B-day this year as well, since it was quite possible that my friends would be asking her “Isn’t it your birthday as well?” throughout the evening. I questioned her sudden disregard and she told me that she didn’t really want to have a dinner outing and celebrate her birthday, but just wants to get trolleyed on booze that day. I thought it was appropriate at that point to insert the line, “It will be fun. After all, we will be celebrating our youth,” which worked, because it seemed she would drink to that. She says she expects to be drunk by 4pm that day, so it will be interesting to see how many of her friends will deny knowing her later in the evening. Depending on the volume of alcohol she consumes, I might have to play along with them.
The birthday blindness is a strange phenomenon. It seems that with some women, upon reaching an age in their early 20s, something takes place inside of them that chemically makes them become publicly oblivious to their own birthday; a day that used to be a lavish red letter day in years past. This sudden birthday amnesia possibly corresponds to new found wrinkles or other age affirming factors, and strikes between the ages of 20 and 25 (guaranteed or your birthday money back).

Last but not least, a nice riddle that has been circulating the net (which I found via Hwei). Albert Einstein allegedly wrote it during the 19th century and claimed that 98% of the world population would not be able to solve it. Find out if you are one of the 2% that can:

There are 5 houses each with a different color. Their owners, each with a unique heritage, drinks a certain type of beverage, smokes a certain brand of cigarette, and keep a certain variety of pet. None of the owners have the same pet, smoke the same brand of cigarette or drink the same beverage.

The question is: Who owns the fish?

The clues:
The Brit lives in the red house.
The Swede keeps dogs as pets.
The Dane drinks tea.
The green house is on the left of the white house.
The green house’s owner drinks coffee.
The person who smokes Pall Malls raises birds.
The owner of the yellow house smokes Dunhill.
The man living in the center house drinks milk.
The Norwegian lives in the first house.
The man who smokes Blends lives next to the one who keeps cats.
The man who keeps a horse lives next to the man who smokes Dunhill.
The owner who smokes Bluemasters also drinks beer.
The German smokes Prince.
The Norwegian lives next to the blue house.
The man who smokes Blends has a neighbor who drinks water.

It took me 20-25 minutes last night to work it out and there are honestly no tricks. It’s just a case of applying logic and a bit of trial and error. The education system has changed much over the centuries so I wonder what the fluctuations in percentage of the world’s population that cannot solve it will be now. To see the answer, drag your cursor over the following hidden section:

Thought of the day: Why is the word “women” pronounced “wimmin?”