The mobile phone: my closest friend

Literally. I take him everywhere I go because I feel vulnerable without him. He sleeps beside me, wakes me up, tells me that it’s raining outside. During the day, he sits squarely in my pocket. Perhaps you have a similar friend?

Every now and then I teach him a new skill. He learns it in seconds, kind of like how Trinity in The Matrix learnt how to fly a helicopter. Only, unlike Trinity who’s human and will grow old and stop learning things, this companion of mine will continue to learn until the day his heart stops beating - or battery stops charging. 

But I can’t teach him everything;  this one has a limited knowledge capacity. Nonetheless, he’s sturdy, cheap to run, fast. You might as well say that he’s… no; he isn’t perfect. He gets close.

When I introduce him to friends, I say he’s this super nice internet-connected gizmo who does amazing things. The downside is that he occasionally buzzes and wants me to talk to someone. I’m not fond of those moments. Not fond at all.

We’ll be hanging out, he and I – writing things, reading other things, playing games – when all of a sudden: Vvvvrrrrnnngggggg! The name of a person I probably know interrupts my aloneness, and my friend here sings a song – loudly – to break the silence. It’s a song I’ve grown sick of. In fact, I’ve grown sick of every one of his songs.

I get it, he’s warning me – like your dog yapping to warn you that someone’s on your property. And that someone will keep coming back unless you deal with him now. It’s a universal truth that it’s better to deal with him now. But as that damnable song screeches through the pores of that tinny speaker, I’m less inclined to appease it and more inclined to question why I live in a society that insists on answering - answering doors, answering questions, answering phones - and why I have a problem with it. Actually, why do I keep a device whose fundamental purpose is to make answering stuff easier? Why would I do that to myself?

I’m an introvert; I choose my friends carefully. But this friend – this closest friend – isn’t so good at discriminating. He sings for everyone. Every single one. If only I could live without him.

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"It's not instant enough!"

Snappy and passion-filled, these were the words of a friend speaking on the subject of reheating food in the oven as opposed to the microwave.

The oven, I'd argued, retains the crispiness of a pizza base or the stability of a pie pastry - and we all know that a pie's pastry is make-or-break, literally. I said if we didn't have to contend with time, the oven would win.

But she was quick to remind me that we are always contending with time, and so, whenever we juxtapose the quick-start blitzer with the oven's knobs, fan-force and backlight, most of us will simply give shrug to the latter and declare, "It's not instant enough."

Little did I know then, but she had it right. In another time I was content with waiting for my dial-up internet connection to load my Neopets profile or that Homestar Runner episode, even though the latter's audio would run ahead of the video by dint of, you know, the dial-up. Things like this were far from instant, but they were more than enough.

In another time, there was this thing called 'patience'; and even when it came to technology - even when a web page would load in its stop-motion-style unveiling as each bit by literal bit of content appeared onscreen - I remained content.

Now, jump forward to last week: I did not remain content. There was an internet outage - or rather, an internet hissy fit - and it just wouldn't sit still. I tell you, the web of 2014 was as sporadic as a flickering dim light swinging on a cord in a horror film, and had this fit lasted any longer than it did, I would've had a case of hissy to call my own.

See, I'd been promised broadband with download speeds that made one's face alight. But on that day, during that bout of internet indecision, it was more akin to dial-up, albeit without the electronic scratching noises that many of us can play by ear. This wasn't right, I said. This wasn't instant enough!

Even when the connection appeared to have fixed itself, web pages would load in a jittery slowness. It was like coming early to the airport, expecting it to be empty, and finding an impossibly long queue leaking into the foyer because everyone else had had the same idea. It was the bane of the first world, and I was its unsuspecting victim.

But yet, in this moment of strife was an afterimage of reminiscence. I recalled my old dragon from Neopets - now starving to death from a lack of sausage omelette - and asked him, "At what point did this all start to change?"

Coffee will never be instant enough. Not ever.

Technology is meant to help, not hinder; it's the magic of the modern world; it's there to astound and to surprise us on a planet which grows increasingly destitute of wonder. And indeed, it does astound - once. But following that, it becomes common place - so much so that even wonder itself may soon wither into novelty.

Somehow, over the last two decades, our expectations have become so inflated that they now coincide with basic rights. Our soons have been superimposed onto nows, and our needs and wants have become so interlaced as to remove all difference. The time bracket has become our worst enemy, and technology's best selling point. Wonders are no longer appreciated but expected.

However means through which this change has occurred, it's been slow and insidious, a usurper who for years we never knew was king. And if we are the masters of ourselves, then we have only ourselves to blame. Ironic, isn't it, that in many ways my twelve year-old self was more mature than I am now at twenty-five? A small part of me knows that this isn't how life is meant to work.

We are mammals; we adapt; and we adapt far faster than it does us good. We rip the extraordinary into its constituents, but the re-assemblage thereafter is a chore that takes too long. A web page used to take thirty seconds to load; now, if it asks for more than three, my instinct is to hit refresh repeatedly and with increasing violence, rather than give it the time of day.

You can sit on a seat thirty thousand feet in the air and travel at over 900kph, and that was wondrous, too, once. Now, along with the cramped seating and the lacklustre movies, human flight is an age-worn oven. It's not instant enough.

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TV series withdrawal

Living life is like driving a car that can't reverse. The farther you go, the more things you see that you'll never see again. Hindsight and reminiscence invade the recesses of our minds, growing up and up like weeds to pull us down. But going back is impossible. Even the weeds know that what’s been done cannot be undone. Still, the truth is hard to swallow.

I’m speaking about TV shows. When I finish watching a good series, my first desire is to erase my memory and watch it anew for the first time. But my hopes are short-lived. It cannot be done, my mind so reminds me. Instead, I'm transported into a pit of hopelessness, occupied by one thought: I have to wait thirty weeks for season two?

Torture, I tell myself, crossing day one off my calendar. Time couldn’t go slower if it, like me, had a mind to try. I re-cap the red marker when another truth intervenes. “You know, if you spent less time watching TV, you’d have less weight clogging your mind. The only weeds are the memories in which you’re doing something other than that which you should be doing. Make better use of your time so that one day, when your journey ends, you’ll step out of your car, you’ll look back and you’ll see, in amongst the weeds, an entire orchard abounding with fr---”

Thirty weeks? What am I going to do for thirty weeks?

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Fate is real, and he likes to mock you

The following scenarios illustrate how Fate works in this world of his. You neither argue with him, nor avoid him. If you try, you will be mocked. Simply accept: Fate isn't your enemy; Fate is your god.

1.     Watch one episode of a television series. I dare you. One year from now, you'll turn on your TV, stumble upon that show, and realise that it's the same episode - the episode Fate chose for you.

2.    Steve comes over. He shows you a YouTube clip, thereby giving you permission to show him one.
Yes! you think to yourself. This will be great!
Two minutes in; your favourite part's coming up. Steve has to see this.
*Bzzzzd!* It's his phone. No! Don't read your petty texts! Look at the video!
Fate whispers in your ear. "He missed it."

3.     Time to drive to Jen's engagement party, but the music in your car sucks, so you turn that knob, you flick those radio stations. A song you like! Yay!
Wait... is this the first chorus or the third? This better be the start--
*Slap!* Have you no faith, fool? The song's nearly over! Bow to fate!

4.     Dear human,
Want to pass that truck on the highway? Be my guest. Meanwhile, I'll just shrink this passing lane over here… 
What? You needed that? I'm sorry; I didn't know. 
- Regards, Fate

5.     Not all hope is lost. Back at home, you still have that movie on your USB stick; and, fortunately, after plugging in USBs a thousand times, you've mastered the rotation to fit it in on the first try. The trick is to get it on the side that's-- DAMN IT, FATE!

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Everything in my life happens in twos!

Hear me out. It's more a theory than a hypothesis, you know, because it's been tested. A hundred times, even, and a hundred times it's happened. When a thing occurs in my life, it occurs again. Everything in my life happens twice!

Last week the keyboard tray on my computer desk fell apart. Just fell apart. The screws had been loosening themselves, I guess, and all at once three of them popped out. The next thing I knew, my fingers were typing the air.

I reattached the keyboard tray, which took longer than expected because there were screws that had to be undone to get to the screws that had undone themselves; but eventually it was back in place. A minor setback on my easy life, I thought. But not one second after sitting back on my chair did my computer blue screen on me! Coincidence? I think not!

"Um, but those are two different things happening," I hear you say. In a sense, you are right, but they have one thing in common. They are both minor inconveniences. One minor inconvenience occurred right after another! Not only that, but my computer (which I've had for two years) had never blue screened before that point, and the keyboard tray had never fallen apart before that point! 

Still not convinced?

Last week a friend was in town for a few hours, and she called me hours in advance, asking if I wanted to catch up. I did, so we did, over dessert. Two days later another friend called me to say that she was in town for a day and asked if I wanted to catch up. I did, so we did, over coffee (at Starbucks). See the pattern!?

The week before last week I'd caught up with yet another friend at the same Starbucks mentioned above, at the same seat at the same time of day. (I didn't choose the place to sit. They got there before me). Also, coffee!

NB: I'm so introverted that I myself never take the initiative to catch up with people. All of these ideas were theirs!

LAST WEEK I tutored a student named Finley. His dad only had twenties, so he paid me $10 too much, and asked if it was okay to pay me $10 less the following week. Not being a thief, I said, "Sure." On Wednesday I tutored Stephanie, who requested $10 change because she too only had twenties. I checked my wallet, but having no change, suggested that she pay me $10 less at the next tutorial. She agreed, and then it hit me. Everything in my life happens twice! (I promise I didn't orchestrate that second instance).

NB: I only tutor two students at the moment, and never before has this kerfuffle over payment occurred.

These are just four examples within the same week. No biggie, right? Wrong! Consider every other week in my life and the possibility that they contain at least four instances of stuff happening twice! (Believe me, I could go on).

I've shared this (tested) theory with several mates. Tatai's dubious to the say the least. The sceptic in him says, "You only take note of the things that happen twice, so of course you'd say that. If you compared those four things with everything that doesn't happen twice, you'd find that the proportion of things happening twice to things happening once is extremely small; and therefore, the things that happen twice are merely coincidences."

Uh, good point. However, "Things that have happened once are only things that have yet to happen again, testified by the examples I have just provided." Come to think of it, I'm fairly certain we've had two conversations about this theory!

Perhaps you too are sceptical. Fair enough, I say, nodding. It isn't a science (yet), for I have no current way of presenting a cause-and-effect relationship between the stuff in my life and the fact that said stuff tends to happen twice. But I'm working on it.

The other obvious question is, "How do you know that the stuff that's happened twice won't happen a third time?"

The answer: "Stuff that happens a third time is destined to happen a fourth. In other words, 'A thing happening twice is itself a thing, which can also happen twice.'" 

Therefore, my theory boils down to this. Everything in my life happens in twos. While 'everything' might be an exaggeration, my theory wouldn't be a theory unless 'stuff happening twice' in my life wasn't so prominent that I became aware of it. Four cases in seven days, I tell you. Beat that!

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My smartphone is a culmination of first world problems

I swear that my phone hates me. I've come to believe that it's teeming with thousands of tiny first-world nanomites that refuse to vacate their nest whenever I'm forced to open my phone and fiddle with the battery.

I try to console myself. Think realistically. Be grateful. I mean, none of us is free from the gripes and annoyances that make our lives slightly less convenient. For some it's that dishwasher that doesn't dry the dishes properly; for others it's the unreachable in-flight magazine in Business Class. (You have to get up from your seat and walk three steps in order to attain it). But things could always be worse. A lot worse. I mean, you could---
POOF!
Sorry, that was the sound of my reverie snapping, because my phone decided to die. See what I mean?

My 19-months-old LG-P970 Android and I have had our moments. There was that one time when the battery lasted a whole day, and that other time when my message sent. But I've come to expect none of that any more, largely based on the fact that it fails.

1. About once a fortnight my phone turns itself off -- annoying if I'm sleeping and have to, you know, wake up.

2. About one in every four texts doesn't send. When that happens, my phone notifies me, to which I think, "Oh, a super fast reply!" Then I read it. "Message not sent." RAGE!

3. In about 29 days of every month my phone functions incredibly slowly.

4. My phone battery dies in about nine hours. You can almost watch the green meter whittle away.

5. The headphone receptacle no longer clips the jack properly. So, when I go for a run, the plug pops out after the fifth step, and I lose all motivation to exercise.

6. My phone freezes at the same frequency that it turns itself off.

7. Of all the apps that crash, the home screen crashes the most. HOW DOES THAT EVEN MAKE SENSE!? 

8. When someone calls me, my phone takes until the fourth ring to display the answer and decline options. And then how I answer is itself a mini-game. It might be that all I'll need to do is touch the green 'answer' button. But the next time someone calls, I'll instead have to drag the button from right to left. And even then my phone tends to amp up the difficulty by LAGGING. So by the time that it registers my commands, the caller has already reached my voicemail. DOUBLE RAGE!

9. Apps open by themselves minutes after I close them.

10. Sometimes, when I want to text, say, Nicole, I'll select her name, but my phone will take me to Hamish instead! Since I won't think to check the name at the top of the the screen, it's only when Hamish replies, "Huh?" that I realise I've texted the wrong person. You can imagine the potential for awkward here.

Well, how do I do it? I hear you ask. Believe it or not, there are worse first world problems than a headache-inducing phone. I've considered buying a new phone, which would eliminate this mass inconvenience; but then that would only create the issue known as having no money. And having no money could easily become a genuine problem. So, you know---
POOF!
Oh look, there it goes again.

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Wacky things we get told to believe, for no real reason

Case One

One rainy day during high school, I was sitting inside, eating my lunch when Jeanne, a fellow student, decided to educate me.

She'd obviously noticed that I'd peeled my banana like any normal person would:

But it wasn't good enough for her. She approached me, placed her hands on her hips and declared, "You're supposed to peel it from the other end." By 'other end', she meant this:

"Why?" I asked.
"Because that's how monkeys do it."
I looked around to find my friends nodding in agreement, the way you'd nod in agreement if Gandalf had spoken. Evidently Jeanne was quite wise. But I simply raised my eyebrows. "Are you a monkey?"
"What? No," she replied. I think she was upset, because she took off.

Sure, there could be actual reasons, such as the fact that it requires less effort, to peel a banana from the other end, but "because that's how monkeys do it" isn't, of itself, a reason to do anything. Why would we want to mimic monkeys? Should we speak like monkeys, too? Why not go one step further and build nests instead of houses because, you know, that's how birds do it?


Case Two

I never believed in Santa or the Tooth Fairy, or even the Easter Bunny. I think, during my early childhood, my parents must have said, "They aren't real. Don't listen to anyone," in super stern tones. Not that it would've mattered. Everyone outgrows these beliefs sooner or later.

Strangely, a lot of people never stop believing the myth that the daddy longlegs is the most venomous spider on the planet (and that its fangs are too small to pierce human flesh).

I consider myself quite a gullible person, which is why it surprises me when I think back to that fateful day on which I too was told to believe the myth, and refused. Despite being only eight years old, my undeveloped capacitors for reasoning somehow deciphered that the claim didn't make any sense.

"Its fangs are too short. Well isn't that convenient?"
"Why is an eight-year-old schoolmate telling me this, and not the news, or my dad, or someone who knows stuff?"
"Why are there zero reports of someone with a cut on their foot standing on a daddy longlegs and subsequently dying?"

All of these questions rummaged through my mind, ransacking the furniture and messing up the carpet. But I knew better than to argue with a classmate who placed his Scrabble letters diagonally across the board, and whose facial expression said, "No matter what you say, I know more than you."

Here's some research to debunk the myth forever:

"Supposedly, daddy longlegs possess extremely powerful poison, but their fangs are too short to penetrate human skin. To find out, [Mythbusters'] Jaime and Adam hunted down a host of daddy longlegs and took them to a spider specialist who could milk out their venom. Next, the spider specialist compared the toxicity of daddy longlegs venom to black widow venom. The red-bellied widow won out, busting the myth.
A microscopic measurement of the long-legged spider's fangs proved their miniscule quarter-millimeter length could puncture human skin, taking a double bite out of the daddy longlegs myth."

Case Three

Several years ago, I was having lunch at a café with some mates. I bought a Coke Zero because... I don't know. "I don't want cancer!" I told myself, which is why I don't know. I think I'd never drank Coke Zero before. Anyway, one of these mates (it might have been Jeanne) said, "Eew! You shouldn't drink that."
"Why not?"
"A chemical in the sweetener is used in embalming liquid!"
I think someone changed the subject, because I never got the chance to say, "And water is used in nuclear power plants. Best not drink that, either."

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First World Angst

Today I experienced a bout of first world angst. It only lasted five seconds. After that I ate food, resolving all previous problems. Then tonight it happened again, this time for about thirty seconds - maybe more! For half a minute the entire world was against me. Of course, self-awareness yet prevailed, and here I now sit, writing this blog, twisting the truth to make a point. Oh, I've already said too much.

It's not right.

It wasn't enough. That fridge, closing without permission as fridges are wont to do. Sometimes I end up holding it open with my foot while I pour the milk on my cereal over at the bench¹ - I'm quite coordinated like that - and then swivel round to return the milk before the door shuts, all in one fluid motion. But today wasn't just so.

Today, I had toast.

As a man having toast does, I took a plate from the cupboard, a knife from the drawer, the toast from the toaster, and the butter from the fridge. That evil, evil fridge. I'm sure it hates me, for within its lair is where I encountered the terror of the first world.

You see, a man can leave the pantry open when he's borrowing the bread, or even the cupboard above the bench housing the sugar. But the fridge? Nope. Can't do that. Can't leave cold condiments and beverages exposed to the elements. That would be counterproductive. Why, world, why? Why do you make us suffer so? You give us electricity, lots of cool stuff, and an appliance that keeps the food chilled at a constant three degree using negligible amounts of energy. But you make us KEEP THE DOOR CLOSED!? Agh!

Alas, in the five seconds it took me to butter my toast (my finesse with the butter knife is unparalleled, even when the weight of the world appears to be resting upon my shoulders), my frustration quickly tempered. A certain thought, something like, "Oh, right, I have so much more than I… FOOD!" occurred, stopping just short as I began devouring my breakfast.

You must be miserable.

It wasn't until later tonight, in the midst of my shower, that that previous thought was given the time to conclude. Of course, the thing which triggered said thought was a mysterious and perhaps uncanny bout of bipolar disorder going on in the water pipes. For a good thirty seconds, the temperature was bouncing between hot and cold; and the cold wasn't fun. To make matters worse, one of those bounces lasted just long enough for me to think it was permanent and make the water hotter. Suffice it to say that, thanks to my Samoan blood, I came out of that bathroom unscathed --- but just barely. During this second encounter, I was all up in arms at the fact that I shouldn't have to deal with indecisive showers! But in the end, I again became aware of my foolish thinking and, in introspection, thought, "Oh, right, I have so much more than I need. Why the heck am I complaining?"

I don't know the answer to that; but I think the constant pipeline of awesomeness, in the form of technology, food, great people, good weather, stable jobs, convenient healthcare, are all part of the constitution. They're great, make no mistake. But they fuel an insatiable appetite for more. and our capacity for expectation only grows with each subsequent undertaking in first world convenience.

Sort of like this: "I'm complaining about a fridge door shutting. My life must be so boring. OMG, my life is boring! Time to complain!" Like that.

-------------------------------

¹ Sure, I could open it all the way without the need for the whole foot-stabilising, but then the fridge door would slam against the pantry door, which was already left open for added bread-returning convenience.

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'Fun Size' chocolate, with added moral

Somewhere along the way, I seem to have overlooked something. I realise that language changes. 'Thus' and 'hence' are used interchangeably; 'whom' is pretty much a goner; and 'gotten', I'm still getting used to gotten. It makes me think of mutated cotton. But I'll get there. 

What I don't get - what I'll never get - is something far graver than any of the aforementioned tweaks to the English language. It quite frankly contradicts the very thing it aims to promote. Still wondering? Then let me ask you, at which point did 'fun' become synonymous with 'MINISCULE'?

Some things can be small and fun: Gameboys, cell phones, iPods, vegetables. In fact, vegetables so small they're invisible are the most fun. But chocolate -- chocolate is never fun when chocolate is small. Better word associations for a lack, or shortage, of chocolate, include: taunting, tormenting, torturous, dire, deprive-yourself, I'd-rather-die, and so on.

No man even closely associates any of these words with 'fun', unless they're a masochist. And even if they are, leaving one's taste buds pleading after a nibble of melt-in-your-mouth chocolate is never, ever fun.

So, why do we have this?

The bit in the yellow.

Let's hope they don't release a SUPER FUN size.

Yes, you may get twelve in a pack, but there's only ever enough for one each. Don't try to argue. And one 'fun size' Snickers is like one measly bite of pizza, after which you're forced to endure the mouth-watering aroma of pepperoni and cheese and whatnot without so much as another taste.

You see, I like to down my Snickers in one no-mess mouthful, but other people nibble away at the corners like it's secretly disgusting but they're trying to be polite. Still others save theirs for later. To that group I always think, "Why didn't I do that?"

But when I try to do that, it never works: the chocolate must be eaten. And so it always is that I'm left chocolate-less, contending with the delicate munchings of those around me whose secret motives, I'm certain, are to torment me. Fun.

It was fun while it lasted, sure. But when it's gone, all you can do is sit and watch as someone else does a better job with their Snickers (an atrocious metaphor for time and resources). Regretful, wasted, depressed - these are the only emotions you feel now, and they're never fun. Wasting what time you have today could mean it'll all be over by tomorrow.

Remember, "the consequences of today are determined by the actions of the past. To change your future, alter your decisions today." (I made that up, then added quote marks to make it official.)

In life, we're told to lower our expectations and settle. Well, you know what? It's time to take a stand. Say NO, that's not fun-sized, that's crap-sized! I deserve more!

And other meaningful things.

Now go buy loads of chocolate! And avoid the I'd-rather-die size!

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Common selfishness

Small talk. An essential tool for general human-to-human communication, yet constituting a type of mutual selfishness.

In the twenty seconds of downtime between when you first see your doctor and he decides to get on with his job, he might ask, "How are you?" to which you respond with one of the following.

"Good/fine/all right."

"Good/fine/all right, thanks."

"Good/fine/all right, thanks. Yourself?" (Warning: grammatically incorrect)

"Sick, obviously."

"Murderous."

It's likely that, with any positive reply, he'll smile and say, "That's good!" and with a negative, "Aw, that's too bad." And regardless, "How may I help you today?"

You see, from his perspective, he doesn't care that much. On the surface, he genuinely hopes you're well, that you get better; and he's genuinely pleased when your day's been a blast. Beyond that, however, he doesn't give a rat's ass. This isn't a bad thing, mind you. He simply doesn't have time for a lecture of, say, why your day's been so awesome. Heck, he doesn't even know you. From his perspective, he's filling in the silence with verbal acknowledgement of your presence.

Likewise, from your point of view, you know he doesn't care that much. You acknowledge that he hasn't got the time of day for details beyond "good" and "fine". And it's likely you don't want to waste your allocated fifteen minutes revealing personal information to someone you barely know. Furthermore, you know that he understands this. From your perspective, 'fine' is all but sufficient. For both of you.

In short, he doesn't care about you. You don't care that he doesn't care about you. Nothing needs to be said. Hand over the money and go. Common selfishness.

Fundamentally, it's always the same. But we're humans. We're relational. We have to bury the "I don't care-ness" as far down as possible. So far that even we, the very culprits with spades still brandished, are as unaware as any.

It happens naturally, and we change it up with our tone of voice. Perhaps my day's been rather depressing. Got a speeding ticket, cat threw up, internet stopped working, had to wake up before 8 - you know, genuine rich world problems. If someone asked, "How are you?" I might say, "Mm. Good?" with a rather high tone to indicate uncertainty. And with that, I've told them all they want to know; and I've been completely honest, too: "I haven't really got anything to complain about, but my day could have been better." All in two words. Common selfishness. Respect.

We do it all the time - adopting a tone to accommodate our given level of 'good'. And while some people are better at it than others, we're aware that our small talk is often teeming with all kinds of apathy. High or low, short or tall, no matter the tones of people you meet; if you've heard it once, you've heard it a thousand times. Mutual selfishness. You can go now.

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Stop taking pictures of everyday food and putting them on Facebook

"You spent twenty minutes putting some ingredients together so you could feed yourself. How innovative!"

"All this time I thought you were anorexic. Glad that's not the case."

"You went shopping, bought a steak and cooked it? Please, allow me to bow down to the sheer excitement that is your life!"

These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my mind when I see a photo of food someone's so eagerly dumped onto Facebook. And I don't mean nice, fancy, this-took-me-three-hours-to-make-and-there-were-several-times-I-expected-it-to-fail food; not even funny, pretty or generally cool food, like ninjabread men. (These I appreciate. Facebook needs an achievement system for such spectacles of art).

I'm referring to those plain bowls of I-made-two-minute-noodles-and-everyone-needs-to-know-about-it. Here's an illustration of just how revolutionary they really are.

Who knew?

In any case, the above thoughts are quickly pushed aside in the light of one simple question. Why?

Why do you feel the need to share that your boiled egg is white and not, in fact, purple? Why do I need to know that you had dinner? Are you implying that you go hungry every night you don't upload a photo?

Did you kill the cow to which that slab of steak belonged? No? Then why?

Regardless of this unanswered question, these photos still manage to garner a few likes. Heck, even I've considered liking one on occasion: "Jenny always acts like a robot. I was beginning to think she was one. But now that I know she eats food, I guess she's human after all. This deserves a like." Heh, not quite. Jenny limits her food photos to those of high presentation and quality, regardless of her robotic characteristics. Thumbs up, Jennifer!

There's a reason I don't take a picture of my meat pie that took exactly three minutes to microwave; I can't see why anyone would care. So next time you think to upload a photo of food, think again. Is it the best pie you've ever had? Does this mark the first time you've ever eaten meat? Is your pie full of cockroaches instead of mince? Did you think Facebook was some massive cooking blog that's gone insanely off topic? If your answer's no to all of these, then please, spare me the 110kb and keep your pie to yourself.

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Why tax forms are among my worst nightmares

I've always struggled with maths, much to the superficial irony of my high school mates who used to remark, "But your dad's a maths tutor," to which I'd reply, "And your dad's in prison. Shouldn't you be robbing a bank?"

Sure, I could grasp the concepts and reasoning behind all those formulas, but I found it difficult to apply them to questions where the working hadn't already been done for me, regardless of practice. Even worse, I had a knack for making stupid mistakes: typing the wrong number into my calculator or pressing multiply instead of divide, and then failing to realise that the resulting answer was so horribly inaccurate.

Yet, when the test or what have you came back marked, I'd see where I'd gone wrong and immediately realise how stupid I was. In short, I knew how to get it right, but couldn't. I had good days, of course, where I'd get lucky and make next to no mistakes. But these moments were few and far between.

It was a horrid past, I agree; but it was not I who uncovered it. No, it was the tyrannous, ever-conspiring government! Evidently they like to laugh at the mathematically challenged by over-complicating tax return forms. I'm self-employed, so I had to declare my own tax. There was no opting out.

Older and wiser, I naturally assumed the process would be easy. My thoughts went something like, "It's designed for everyone to handle; and I'm not entirely stupid, so this'll be a breeze!" I was mainly replaying that thought to suppress the fact that tax-return-filling-out had to be the most boring thing anyone could ever do ever (this fact alone led to hundreds of 'I'll do it tomorrow' days, until I received a warm letter in the mail saying it was overdue).

Preferring not to pay a fine, I retrieved the forms and slumped them onto my desk. And boy did they slump. There had to be at least four double-spaced pages in there. Four! And the front page was devious, too. It made the process look easy with its 'Enter name here' and 'Enter IRD number here' instructions. Don't get me wrong; I do know my name. But it was what followed that reminded me exactly why I failed Year 11 Accounting.

From page two I was stricken with the inevitable headache of frustration and confusion. Frustration because I had to make multiple calls to IRD since, as it so happens, I had three jobs during that tax year; and confusion because I had no idea what 'residual income' meant, or why I had to keep copying box 2 to box 12 to box 17 to box 24. You see, writing the same sum a million times (when really it should've only been once) made the process feel, in contrast, too simple. Surely I was doing something wrong, right?

And then it asked me to add box 5 and 10 and 12; and I ended up with so many added-together numbers that I forgot which came from where, and thus what meant what. It didn't help that most of the tax jargon didn't make any sense to me.

Three hours, I tell you, and a handful of Panadol. That's what it took to get it done. Even with the aid of my dad, I still got confused.

In the end, like any good achievement, I made a copy of it for future reference. I don't want to have to go through that process ever again.

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