Luzzio

Two of my flatmates giggle as they secretly watch from behind the kitchen counter; me, bobbing my head up and down. Tuned in, zoned out, covering a chapter the night before tomorrow’s lecture because I planned on skipping (or skiving). I don’t usually skip lectures. Could count them with one hand, the amount of times I actually did last semester. Less than 5.

What they saw, was, I suppose, the studious asian kid sitting down with music turned on, multi-tasking, aiming for that prized A which us yellow people set as our stereotypical life goals. I must have looked like I enjoyed studying.

10 minutes before they had been here, I had entered the common room, fuming. Picked up a highlighter, and started reading Tort. One page, two pages, three pages, and I got up suddenly. Picked up the damn highlighter, threw it against the wall in rage, which it hit with an undramatic thud. My hand went for the porcelain cup next, but I hesitated, decided the mess, the explanation, the current rage, was not worth it. I placed myself back into the seat.

Music selection was typical of someone trying to forget, trying his best to escape the voice in his head and the worries and the dilemmas that constantly plague. Loud, rock, dramatic, angry. I knew what I was running from inside, and tried my best to immerse into music for emotion, and scanned the textbook to stop thinking about the important things which I didn’t like to deal with.

I want love, not money.

My life seems headed for the former, with lack of what really matters. I’m a fucking law student, some one black suit who isn’t making music, acting for other people. I used to think that aspiration, ambition, the drive to achieving shallow goals of monetary gain was merely a means of reaching a higher and more novel aim: providing for her. Her, whoever she was.

Ignoring the plight of others, the victims of Apartheid, the homeless man who I pass by on the street, the Haitians, life’s noble goal for me is to protect the one, the one that I love, to shelter her from the harshness of the outside world, facilitating so she may pursue her own dreams without having to be burdened and pulled back by the realities of life’s mundane burdens. Whoever she was.

It feels similar to building a house, for someone that does not exist yet.

I’m afraid of living with somebody merely because they are a professional, has a high paying job, and can match my salary, so as to not be a burden. I don’t want a partner in supporting the roof above our heads, or a person who is there merely as a prized trophy. Yet that is what’s important isn’t it? An undeniable factor if you were to meet someone in the working life. You no longer have the benefit of naive innocence. Everything will be calculated. Everything will be compared to Her.

And that is what will happen.

Anyway.

Chinese New Year in Manchester Chinatown!

….was quite a disappointment, to be honest.

My main complaint would have been that Chinatown was just too packed. The aggravating fact that there were more white faces than asian ones made it felt as if the celebration was more a tourist event rather than the celebration of… uh… my culture/race/heritage whatever.

The crowd also made it difficult to grab any decent pictures, and there’s really only so many perspectives you can capture when wedged in between an obese lady with her baby-cart, and a bearded asian uncle.

Sweetly ironic were that the shortest of our friends in the crowd would be the ones with the best view.

I’d like to bitch about a certain brand:

SuperDry Japan is possibly one of the most expensive “affordable luxury” brands (following me?). I won’t even quote the prices. It’s nowhere as expensive as some high-street brands that go into the quad-zero prices at the bare minimum, but at least those brands make an effort in marketing an image.

I have no idea what SuperDry Japan does for you. It’s plain, looks exactly like what someone working in the docks would wear on a cold morning, and merely has the bitchy word “SuperDry Japan” on it’s back in smallprint. Real douchey.

Then again we’re all slaves of retail.