I just laughed really loudly for 20 seconds straight because I saw this on GoodReads:

Oh god. You have no idea how hilarious this is.

Movie: Eye in the Sky

Premise: 

Col. Katherine Powell, a military officer in command of an operation to capture terrorists in Kenya, sees her mission escalate when a young girl enters the kill zone, triggering an international dispute over the implications of modern warfare.

(Edited out of my post a lot of swearing and top-notch insults...there's still a lot of swearing)

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I just finished watching this incredible movie. All that I can think about right now is this.

Every single international relations student needs to fucking watch Eye in the Sky. 

Actually, every single person who holds any opinion about war, politics, and human rights needs to watch Eye in the Sky.

I am not kidding. 

You know how many people think they know what it's like to make a judgement call in the heart of an ongoing war zone?

To think that wartime actions can be critiqued through the black and white lens of moral absolutism (i.e. "this act is always wrong" and "this act is always right")?

To think that their personal interpretation of an intricate military or government decision is somehow an 'obvious' one, and more credible than those held by the people who actually knew all the available facts, have experienced war on the ground, and have to bear real-world responsibility for their decisions? 

A LOT. Because I had to debate such persons (friends IRL) with such views on Facebook recently.

Eye in the Sky, a consummately woven and utterly compelling story, will make what I think is already totally fucking obvious even more obvious. 

Wartime decisions, especially under tight time frames and unforgiving public scrutiny, are extremely difficult to make. They also and very often involve moral ambiguity, and moral relativism. Sometimes, it is as impossible to decide on a wartime action as it is to answer the biggest philosophical/ethical questions of our time. 

e.g. THAT 'trolley problem':

There is a runaway trolley barreling down the railway tracks. Ahead, on the tracks, there are five people tied up and unable to move. The trolley is headed straight for them. You are standing some distance off in the train yard, next to a lever. If you pull this lever, the trolley will switch to a different set of tracks. However, you notice that there is one person on the side track. You have two options: (1) Do nothing, and the trolley kills the five people on the main track. (2) Pull the lever, diverting the trolley onto the side track where it will kill one person. Which is the most ethical choice?

I feel like everything I'm typing out right now is so commonsensical and shouldn't even need to be stated. I feel like a fucking pedagogic, tautological dickhead even pasting the trolley problem here, and bolding certain lines that I think are important. I don't want to come off patronising and yet... 

The fact that I had clearly intelligent friends not understanding or unwilling to recognise this concept of 'yeah, sometimes there is no way to decide on right and wrong, and thus it is probably not a good idea for us as privileged first-world netizens to impose our opinions onto other people with more knowledge than us, relating to problems that they personally deal with' - was immensely frustrating.

Of course, it would be acceptable that somebody make a moral judgment AFTER they take into account every possible factor (that is available to them) about the conflict. But frankly, we're twenty something year old college students living in the most liveable city in the world. Come on.

There is simply no way we are in any position to know everything about a freaking war occurring 3000 miles away in a country, and then comment authoritatively on a morally ambiguous situation occurring in its midst. 

Anyway, Eye in the Sky is a MUST WATCH. It is just a beautiful film. I weeped for a few seconds at the end. 

KIND OF A SPOILER (pretty obvious ending anyway) (the most apt summary of Eye in the Sky):

Tear-stained politician:

"In my opinion, that was disgraceful. And all done from the safety of your chair."

A Lieutenant General stands up, preparing to leave the room. In a deep, measured tone, he reminds her:

"I have attended the immediate aftermath of five suicide bombings. 

On the ground, with the bodies. 

What you witnessed today, with your coffee and biscuits, is terrible. 

What these men would have done would have been even more terrible. 

Never. Tell a soldier. That he does not know the cost of war."

A catharsis about being free from society's sycophantic bullshit

A few days ago, I read an extremely well-written feature piece on Moxie Marlinspike in the latest issue of WIRED Magazine. No, Moxie Marlinspike is not Hollywood's next purple-haired, uber sassy but impossibly cute manic pixie dream girl.

He is the programming genius who invented the software Open Whispers, which enables double-end encryption on your text messages, online messages (i.e. on Facebook and Whatsapp), and phone calls. He's the world's number one guardian of privacy. A cynic of government and law enforcement. A believer that only rule-breaking leads to progress. He is, by all means, the people's hero. And truly, his technology played a critical role in the events of the Arab Spring.

Moxie Marlinspike is a grade A rebel. He doesn't play by society's rules and he will never have his life suffocated by the boundaries that other people set for him. He did things like drop out of school, not go to college, couch-surf among different friends for months, go sailing around the world with a few of his best mates. He once had to sleep on a bench. But this was the life he had chosen and wanted. It was the most precarious, the most exciting, and the most personally satisfying.

And then I realised something. Something that has further changed how I understand myself and what I want out of life. On the other hand, I can see how some people may argue that this is something borne dangerously out of my own fantastical desires - a harbinger of my vocational death. And perhaps what I say next is only further testament to my quixoticism, but goddamn, I only have one life, and if I had to conduct myself according to the rules, conventions and expectations dictated by the rat race of society, its ridiculous fashions, and its cretinous toxic industries, then I'd rather fucking die right now. What I wanted was to be - was Moxie Marlinspike. 

I envied the hell out of Moxie Marlinspike. Reading his story, I became acutely aware that I am not a genius coder, and that in my lifetime, I probably will not possess a skill anywhere near the level of consummation that Moxie exercised over coding (except maybe writing? lol). But I definitely recognised that the more I read about him, the more I was nodding to myself in absolute awe. Here was a guy who was both changing the world quite drastically, and not having to commit to bureaucratic bullshit, eight hours a day of sycophantic smiles, memorised by-lines, and tea-sipping etiquette with old white men/boring white-collar suits. He was answerable to no-one, and absolutely free to be himself.

And I loved it. 

Maybe this is just a phase, spurred by my countless interactions with bosses who believed that 'respect' was a top-down hierarchy and not an egalitarian, horizontal one. Spurred by the neverending comparisons and heavy expectations placed on me as a law student. Spurred by the extreme stress and existential crisis that law students feel when they apply for clerkships. 

To be honest, it's probably more to do with the first factor (where I've been underpaid, ignored, insulted, misunderstood, disrespected etc etc). And the fact that growing up in a Chinese family heavily involved in prominent Chinese-Melbourne circles, I've been forced by my parents to 'kiss ass' every time I attend a function, and battle for photos with whichever politician was present. I've been doing this since high school and I have barely ever self-promoted such photos on Facebook or whatever. I don't know, it's just fucking embarrassing. Like, taking a photo with the President of the Electoral Commission when I was 15, or with the MP for Box Hill and his wife when I was 17. Who the fuck cares? Do people care? 

Every time I post shit like that now, which is certainly not often, is because I'm finally at the point where everyone around me is doing the same shit and I feel pressured to self-promote. I also sometimes do feel a bit guilty. I have had all these incredible opportunities to network and I haven't capitalised fully on them, or I never actually sustain the networks I've built. I once had a lovely mentor who graduated from Cambridge business school and did a JD at Monash. He's now the Asia Pacific director of some international law firm. We used to exchange emails, and then I just stopped replying (it might have had a little to do with the fact that I was 17 and he was 41 when we first met, and I was uncomfortable that he was driving me around to get coffee and stuff oh god I'm sorry mister, you were a good guy).

Anyway. I know. I was fucking stupid to give that up. But honestly, I'm exhausted. I was thrust into a world of sycophantism when I was very young, and although I know that I am good at talking to people, I hate having to try really hard to please people that I don't know or like, and seppuku my own personality for the sake of what other people deem a necessity of life. 

Fuck I really need to study now. 

3. Red Light District - Basement Level 12

Fuck.

Like literally.

People out in the complete open were engaging in such rabid, explicit frottage that there was barely any significant difference between it and actual intercourse. One guy whose vintage Game of Thrones t-shirt clung so tightly to his chest that it looked like it would spontaneously rip into confetti at any second, was expertly grinding his ass against a pimped up Robogirl, unleashing insane body-rolls that synchronised perfectly to the doof doof doof of the track that was blasting out of invisible speakers. The song was Desire, the latest No1 dance anthem sung by oversexualised Polish-Chinese pop star Katarzyna Zheng. I only knew this because Zheng's new music videos were a pandemic point of discussion and analysis within the Flux community. Unlike most of the world's current pop stars, Zheng was actually human, not just a holographic doll whose every curve and breathy whisper had been electronically designed and produced by big South Korean record label companies. These companies have, by the way, come under increasing scrutiny for its employment of 3D programmers in slave-wage conditions. Thus, in her electronically unadulterated position, Zheng's tactile good looks and genuine vocal talent cemented her a place as the darling of the world's hologram-dominated music industry. Though the production quality of her music wasn't particularly above and beyond those of other holographic pop idols, she still was, in the words of adoring fans on the Flux and most of the international commentariat, 'the human salvation music needs', 'the long-awaited revival of classic pop', 'the iconoclastic sex icon'.

I turned to look at Milo152. He still couldn't wipe the amusement off his face.
"Surely, you will have gotten used to these scenes on the Flux," he shouted at me over the music, his words barely registering. I didn't bother answering, but mindfully earmarked this occasion as the first time in my life I had seen mass musically synchronised dry-humping.

As we walked, the crowd around us seemed to evolve from Rn'B clubbers to Gay Pride Parade. Soon, we were bumping shoulders with men wearing nothing but pink feather boas tied strategically around their -

"Johnson!" yelled Milo152. I jumped, startled. "Oi, Johnson!" He started flailing his hands wildly over his head, signalling to someone that seemed to be coming from the direction of a neon-lit peep show lane. This was indeed the case, and the man named Johnson was surprisingly, a terribly overweight slavic man with a disfigured face. No, that wasn't right. He face had been disfigured at some point, but now it was 'fixed' - by a somewhat gratuitous installation of flashy bionic replacements. The right side of his face had been subject to some special metallic skin graft that blended right into his epidermis, which impressively, also displayed some sort of moving tattoo design. The right eye was red and mechanical - an illegally built-in infrared scanner. He could definitely see everyone 100 percent naked right now, which was probably two percent more than the nakedness already on display. I immediately realised,  however, that 'everyone' now included me.

Milo152 and I walked over to the slightly quieter corner where Johnson was looming. The man looked me up and down without a twitch. Well, I wasn't sure if that was something his face could still do.

"Iz this her?" Johnson spat, with an indecipherable continental accent.
"Yeah," said Milo152, who shot me a friendly reassuring look to signal 'no-I'm-not-human-trafficking-you-to-some-fat-disgusting-looking-Bulgarian-pimp'. "She'll be able to help you."

"Uh, 'help him'?" I paused, analysing their faces. "What... do you mean?"

Johnson grimaced. "Well," Milo152 began calmly, " I mentioned on the Flux that I needed you to do something a bit... unconventional. Something I think you've probably never attempted before. That's why I risked it all by asking you to meet me in person."

I looked at Milo152. I looked at Johnson. I looked at Milo152. 

"Uh no. I... not that," said Milo152 a bit embarrassedly. Then he took a deep breath, switching his gaze to his mysterious counterpart.

"I need you. To hack him."

2. Underground City

We arrived at Basement Level 1, which was the most benign, family-friendly strata in the huge complex that was Underground City. During the day, school-kids would come to frequent the bustling food stalls and shop for whatever was the latest in trid mods and remote controllable gadgets - mostly racing drones and BattleMechs, both of which constitute hugely overrated competitive industries. It's a popular place for some classic father-son bonding sessions. There were multiple indoor racing and mech battling stadiums for hire, as well as a litany of arcade game stops and anime/manga stores.

I always thought that B1 would be the same at night. You know, a cool place full of fun gizmos where people could hold racing events, trip out their Mechs, and throttle the shit out of each other's expensive toys. Apparently, that's not all that happens in B1.

Around the corner of a deliciously fragrant takoyaki stall stood a bunch of glaringly bright teens whose hairstyles looked like they were in the midst of projectile vomiting rainbows into the air. I probably would have done just that if I had listened to one more second of the conversation between one smoochy couple.

"But babe," said the barely 16 year old girl in a whiny baby voice. "I thought tonight was just gonna be us. You and me. For some special private times." She started torturing him with the soft caress of her fingertip over his budding pea-sized pectorals.
"Aww sweetie," the guy giggled, "I promised the boys I'd take them to Sam's drone party behind Joe's Pizzas. But how about later...I'll show you my private drone...." he slowed, a lascivious smile rippling through his equally creepy, bee-stung lips.

Milo152 led me past the wildly hormonal group, but not without turning back, catching my disgusted countenance and giving me a thoroughly amused look.
"You don't go out much, do you?" he asked, but it came off as more a statement.
This time, I sarcastically returned his smile. "No, I'm a misanthropic troglodyte-cum-cybercriminal. I don't leave my computer if I don't have to. This..." I looked around at what would otherwise be a quotidian setting for everyone else, "is an adventure for me".
"This is an adventure?" he laughed, as we continued walking past rows and rows of Asian snack stalls. There were potato and cheese salads. Spicy Taiwanese chicken pop corn. Kebabs. Fried soft-shell crab. I couldn't remember the last time my olfactory senses had been besieged so pleasantly. I had gotten too used to the wet, dank, smoky smell of my rotting apartment back in Nunnek, which is not the nicest neighbourhood to live in.

We continued trodding forward through the masses that have come out for the Saturday night markets, weaving in and out of the boisterous crowds like two lone fish that have deviated from the school. For the first time, I noticed that though Milo152 looked Asian, he didn't have any epicanthic folds around his eyes. And he had a smattering of freckles on his left cheek. Perhaps he was half-Asian. Well, most people are half-something these days. Half-Chinese. Half-Spanish or Russian. Half-bionic. I started to wonder whether he would have gotten his face cosmetically altered, not so much for the aesthetic benefits but to help him become more efficient at his drug-dealing business. Who knows. Maybe he's the sort of guy who gets his face tweaked once every couple of weeks as a pre-emptive security measure.

"Hm, so I hope you're okay with where we're going then."
"Where are we going then?" I said, my tone slightly on-edge.
"Uhhh. Well. You'll see soon enough."
We rounded a corner, and there was another set of stairs.
"Let's catch the elevator instead," he said, turning left and into a darkish laneway. We were at one of the edges of B1, where the shops had dwindled to just a few. I hadn't realised we had walked that far already. In fact, the non-existence of foot traffic here made me feel weird.
"You okay?" he said. I began to realise that I was probably being a bit too obvious with my facial expressions, and it was revealing everything he shouldn't know about how I was feeling right now. Which was basically 'why-did-I-agree-to-this' and 'I-don't-want-to-get-stabbed-or-raped-tonight', although I was pretty sure Milo152 was not the stabby type or the rapey type.

There was a 'ding' sound and two metal doors slid open from an unassuming soot-covered wall. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lied.
He looked at me earnestly for a few brief seconds, as if not knowing what to say. Then he laughed out loud as we stepped in. His hand hovered over the elevator pad, then he pressed for the very bottom level - Basement Level 12.

It took me a moment to remember. All I could muster in the incredibly short five seconds we had in the elevator was "wait..."
Then the doors slid open once again. Deafening oriental pop beats hit my face like a sledgehammer. Half-naked girls and guys strutted around in 9 inch stilettos, shaking their flashing LED bras, panties and party hats into my line of sight. Dancing robo-girls with plastic moulded F-cup breasts spun around like mirror balls on elevated platforms. A holographic video of a young Scarlett Johansson warapped in a tight red mini-dress blew me a kiss.

My eyes bulged slightly.
Milo152 laughed.
"Welcome to B12 - the Red Light District."

1. Central Station

Standing outside the staircase leading down to central station, I glanced at my watch for the second time. 11.46pm. A slew of rain drops quickly smothered the dim blue screen. I shoved my hands back into my pockets, squeezing the heat packs that I had judiciously prepared before I left my apartment. He's late. 

Staring at the people walking by central station, it was interesting to see that some were clearly heading home, and for others, the night was just getting started. The latter demographic was young, noisy and probably comprising more than a few underage kids. They were all dressed in fashionable electroluminescent jackets and shoes that glowed iridescently like the lights that festooned Underground City - a neon maze of the hippest bars and karaoke outlets. Most were also chatting into their head-mounted trid-devices, which I assumed would be them hitting up a friend about which dodgy underground pub they should rendezvous. Yeah, this was Saturday night out on the town.

The more I waited among the party crowd and let myself become drenched in the city's pollutant rain, the more I became desperate for a cigarette. My brain had been itching for a hit all morning, but now it was clawing desperately at the fringes of my self-control, exacerbated by the anxiety of having to meet him in person for the first time. And well, by being outdoors, which itself is a lifetime feat.

Milo152 was his username on the Flux. A username like that was simple, non-revealing and devoid of character. Usually, you get cliched names like Omniscent_Shadow, Llama-hunter or even worse, an alliteration like Huge Hurricane Hancock, which tends to reflect much of the pubescent personality that dominates the threads. Milo152, was by that comparison, a perfectly mature adult. Boring, even. Throughout our encounters on the Flux, he never interrogated me about my age or gender, or prodded me about becoming his ally on High Fortress. He didn't even ask to fuck after I intentionally let slip I was, in fact, a female. Yeah, our relationship was pure business. He provided the drugs I needed to fuel my night-habits, and in exchange, I mined him whatever data he wanted. A simple and reliable quid pro quo.

Of course, these transactions weren't exactly lawful, which is why we've always kept our communications limited to the Flux, where it would be near impossible for any cops or narcs to trace our trails. This was because no trails existed on the Flux. All posts, photos, trideos and chats are wiped every 4 hours. Users don't need to make accounts either. It's all a completely liberal space, for some astoundingly illicit activities. And no-one can shut the Flux down. No one probably knows how to, except for the person who made it.

"Kano64?"

I whirled around. "Milo152?"

He nodded. The guy was tall, skinny, Asian, and grinning broadly from ear to ear. I didn't return the smile. In fact, I was quite taken aback by his amicable disposition. After all, we were both still strangers to each other, with no other ties than those that were strictly criminal.

"Sorry for making you wait. I'll tell you the good news later. For now, let's head over to somewhere where we can talk," he said, ignoring my momentary expression of 'what in the world am I dealing with here'. "I know a place in Underground City. It's a rare pocket of tranquility, if you don't mind the sort of people that come and go," he winked.

He started walking off in the direction of central station, down the winding staircase. I followed without another word, wondering why I agreed to a 'date' with my drug dealer in the first place.

Striking up a conversation with my brother: lifetime achievement unlocked

"Hey, so have you read the manga for One-Punch Man?" I asked my brother randomly. We're having dinner at Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant in Glen Waverley, and seated adjacent to a dozen or so old white people having red wine with their sweet and sour pork. Their raucous laughter and Elizabeth Arden perfume hung in the air. 

My brother turned to me and said "Um, no." 

"Well," I continued, sipping my bowl of MSG-laden spare ribs soup, "I read the entire manga for One-Punch Man in one day." 

"Oh," said my brother timidly, but otherwise without any discernible emotion. There was a pause, then he went on. "Did you read the manga before watching the anime?"

"Nah, I watched the anime first. Then I picked up where the anime left off in the manga."

"Oh," said my brother. He picked up a slice of meuniere-doused beef with his chopsticks. 

"Yeah, the manga's only a little bit ahead of the anime. But I know what the next major arc and villain is." 

No response. 

"Don't you want to know what happens next?" I asked. 

"Not really." He grabs a whole heap of garlic spinach. "The anime finished on a pretty solid note. It didn't end on a cliffhanger." 

"Actually, it kindddddd of did. See, the prophecy said that some devastating earth-threatening event wold occur within the next six months, and that clearly wasn't the alien invasion because Saitama defeated them so easily. So the actual event hasn't actually happened yet. We still don't know what it is. I guess it isn't really a 'cliffhanger' but it's still an unanswered question." 

"Hmm. True. Oh well, I'm just going to wait for the anime to come out." 



AND THERE YOU GO. An actual conversation with my brother that lasted longer than 20 seconds. It seems like we're having a lot more of these 'conversations' now. I mean, it may have something to do with the fact that we're inadvertently watching a lot of the same stuff (One-Punch Man; The Legend of Korra), and that I'm now PC gaming.

Yes, you read that right.
Me. Gaming.
Me. The only online games I've ever played seriously are Scrabble and Cartoon Network basketball with your favourite Cartoon Network characters (I was eight years old).

But now, ever since my boyfriend encouraged me to get Steam, I have been completely obsessed with Shadowrun - a strategic turn-based game that relies more on tactical thinking than incessant, reflex-dependent shooting and running. Now that I'm actually super into this game, I've been getting more interested in exploring other genres, especially horror gaming i.e. OUTLAST.

Oh, and back to the dinner, my parents really hated the steamed fish, claiming it was not fresh and probably a dead frozen fish that had been served to us. So you know what my freakin' dad did? He called one of the managers over, and attempted to feed her bits of the fish so she could 'see how not fresh it was.' Like, literally, he got a fork and stabbed a bit of the fish, then held up the falling bits of fish to her face and was like "TRY IT! TRY IT! THEN YOU'LL SEE!"

It was a little bit embarrassing. He even told the manager "YOU MUST HAVE SWAPPED IT FOR A FROZEN ONE IN THE KITCHEN!" To which the manager responded: "Oh my god seriously mister, we are a respectful restaurant business - we would NEVER do that. Believe me." And then walked away.

Yeah, Cantonese people are picky about their fish.

It was 2:20am and in a dark balcony adjoined to a 24 hour shopping complex, I sat cross-legged on a bench, smoking a disgustingly bitter cigarette. It tasted unbearable, but the smell of the burn was intoxicating. It instantly transported me to the brightly illuminated streets of Shanghai - the pollution, the buzz of the cars, the chatter of friends, and of course, the pungent wafts of smoke that drifted around me as they incessantly burned through packets of Double Happiness - the cheapest cigarettes you can buy in China. I smiled, reminiscing the good memories. Shanghai was only two years ago, and while it doesn't feel like a lifetime since setting foot in the winding alleyways and dog-shit-stained pavements of Hongkou district, every day that passes by means a little bit of that incredible, adventurous experience fades. The smells. The lights. The food. The Bund. And most importantly, the people, many of whom I have forged immensely strong friendships with. 

I exhaled, and a long silvery line of smoke snaked its way into the Melbourne air, lingering in front of me for a moment, then disappearing into the night. I stubbed out the cigarette and took out another from my packet. I was thinking that a lot of people are in the same situation as me right now. Young, ambitious, and fearful. 'Fearless' would have been ideal, but honestly, nothing scares me more at this very moment than that feeling of uncertainty about my future and what I will become. I am aware of my peers' achievements, my competition, and my prospects. I am aware of how hard it is to find a job, let alone a job which screams '100% success' and not 'I-settled-for-a-third-rate-option'. I am aware that every minute I spend binging on SBS On Demand (because I don't have Netflix), somebody else at the tender age of 21 is fomenting some brilliant idea for a start-up company, and might be earning a six figure salary within three years of graduation. Or that I have friends younger than I who are apparently killing it trading and investing in stocks. 

I lit my cigarette. Yeah, for someone with a shitload of high self-expectations, it's more than a little bit anxiety-inducing. It's not like my parents even give me that much pressure to do well anymore. Sure, my dad forcibly signed me up as a member of the Labor Party, hoping that this will motivate me to take my first steps towards a trail-blazing political career. And my mum still forwards me her contacts on WeChat, asking me to add them and build up my connections. These are in no way bad things. They are in fact, incredibly good opportunities for me. The pressure that I feel now? That plagues my mind every night I lie in bed, and makes me feel guilty if I'm not constantly networking and adding lines to my CV? It's mostly me - I torture myself over how well everybody else seems to be acing life. But then of course, there's also social media. Facebook, to be exact. If you're a university student, you should know what I'm talking about. 

I leaned back and looked up at the stars. I sighed. Two nights ago, I had finished all episodes of Cowboy Bebop, which if you didn't know, is a hugely iconic anime of the space western and cyberpunk genres. I wished I were Faye, a beautiful bounty hunter that had reawakened from decades of a cryogenic coma. She has the ability to live fully in the present, to start anew, to develop a new identity, and to embark on exciting adventures every single day without having to worry about appeasing anyone. She can travel where she pleases, meet whomever she likes, do whatever she wants - put simply, she is not limited by anything at all, not even herself. And best of all, she gets to live up there, among the stars and the planets. She is surrounded by a supremely vast and infinite beauty. Me? To escape my mental anguish, I had ended up next a K-Mart, a Coles, and an empty food-court.

This is another reason why whenever I feel dissatisfied and trapped, I think of Shanghai. Largely because of the memories, but also because that city in itself is so vast, so luminous, and so lively even in the wee hours of the morning, that I become infected by its energy. I would love being able to take a stroll down the streets at 3am and still be able to see night-hawkers and people playing Mahjong. I think it would actually make me feel happier, and less lonely without being obliged to talk or interact with other people. Plus, street food is the best food. 

Melbourne on the other hand, is boring. It's eerily quiet. Too suburban and too isolated. And ironically, the most suffocating. I'd been sitting on the balcony for a while, but I was surprised to find it had almost been half an hour. 

I stubbed the cigarette out at the receptacle and walked home.

Everyone shines a light for France. But who's going to shine the light for Beirut?

Nobody. And that's the truth. Because tonight, while all the western European countries are putting on pretty, poignant displays of French colours over their iconic buildings and bridges, the suffering of humans in Lebanon are ignored. And for the first time in my life, the hypocrisy is actually pissing me off. 

Yeah, lots of things are pissing me off these days. Incessant make-up advertisements tailored towards me simply because I'm a girl; stupid ass puns on Facebook; the cretins defending the Apple store security guard; "safe spaces", "trigger warnings" and sanctimonious "social justice warriors" all make me want to rip a stress ball to shreds. 

But at this very moment, nothing pisses me off more than hearing someone say "I'm not racist, but we need to stop accepting refugees" or worse, "turn them back, we need to protect our own citizens first." 

These people are so fucking selfish. Fuck. 

You are essentially saying that humans of the Middle East are not worth the same value of humans from first world European/Western societies. Somehow, they're of lesser quality. Not worth a response. 

Indeed, we've become so immune to violence in the Middle East, so used to hearing about Syrians, Lebanese, Libyans, Jordanians, Israelis, Palestinians, dying and being slaughtered - that it's not even 'news' anymore. Middle Eastern people aren't even 'humans' anymore. They're just facts, statistics, numbers that you see on a fucking screen. 

Syrians, for example, are victims of chemical attacks from their own government. They're being used as literal human shields by all sides, being locked up in cages and dragged in front of rebel tanks/cars/soldiers. They're being indiscriminately targeted by Russian airstrikes. Hundreds of thousands die. And netizens don't give a flyingggggg fuck.

Earlier this month, Syrian women caged by militants and used as shields against airstrikes.

To be honest, a few months ago, I probably wouldn't have given it that much thought either. I'd see the pictures, gasp, and then move on. But I don't want to have this response anymore.

Tonight really woke me up to that. 

I have Muslim friends from international student club groups at university who feel persecuted every day by the inane comments of racist Australians like Pauline Hanson. 

I have Cambodian friends whose parents fled their home country on shoddy boats to seek asylum in Australia and still deal with anti-"boat people" sentiment, while being illegally paid below-minimum wages. 

I have Sri Lankan friends whose families are scarred by the recent civil war between the Tamils and Sinhalese, and who carry those scars and tensions with them into the classroom even if they try to hide it.

I have been taught humanities by a (blonde-haired, blue-eyed) teacher who was a second generation Lebanese-Australian, who once brought in Lebanese food for the class, and whose son was also a student in my year level. 

I have grown up with Pakistani Muslims in primary school, including one boy who did a class project on Jet Li and shared his love of Linkin Park with a Vietnamese classmate in the computer rooms when they really weren't supposed to be there. 

I have listened to intelligent friends subconsciously uphold racist stereotypes with remarks like "sorry, I just don't date Asians". 

I have taken friends back home and listened to my relatives make off-hand racist remarks about how dark their complexions were, and how they might steal things from our house.  

I have had one friend also make off-hand racist 'jokes' about Indians smelling like curry and having dirty bathrooms while we were sitting inside an Indian restaurant, surrounded by Indian families. 

And while I love a few politically incorrect jokes myself, I would never fucking do that^.

So screw this world. Screw racists. Screw ignorance. And fuck your stupid little racist jokes. 

Wake the FUCK UP to what you are doing and contributing to. Put things in freaking perspective. Think of all the friends and acquaintances that might be affected by your words, or omissions. And stand up for them. 

Because as Emma Watson said - if not me, who? If not now, when? 

The 'Power' of Make Up is a double-edged sword. So stop defending it like it's the best thing ever.

In response to: #thepowerofmakeup

Any reasonable person realises that the heart of the make-up industry preys on and encourages women's insecurities to sell their products. 

Are your eyebrows thin and sparse? Use this!

Imperfect dark spots? Use this!

Eyelashes short and stumpy? Use this!

There is nothing wrong with having thin and sparse eyebrows until fashion dictates it.

There is nothing wrong with having a few natural dark spots until fashion dictates it.

There is nothing wrong with having short 'stumpy' eyelashes until fashion dictates it.

In relation to this, two things really bug me.

1. Firstly, unless you're Michelle Phan/a make-up artist/equally comfortable going au naturale in public, then you're lying if you say you only wear make-up for yourself and not to look good for other people/satisfy whatever corporation-driven beauty standards are currently trending. 

I HATE IT when women go ape-shit defensive on Facebook when somebody actually says "make-up is bad". They'll say something like "shut the fuck up loser and stop telling women what to do"/"pitting women against each other" after aggressively contending that make-up is awesome for boosting self-esteem and making you feel beautiful and empowered. By that reasoning, why not just take it up a notch and get cosmetic/plastic surgery for everything you feel shit about? 

I agree that when you have a big night out and you want to cover up something you feel really insecure about, make-up is a very useful tool to help you boost your confidence. I also agree that make-up CAN be a valid expression of individualism (I have a friend who wears glittery green lipstick and paints her eyebrows red). But people who say these things without acknowledging make-up's downsides are in complete fucking denial.

Why do you feel empowered only when you wear make-up? Why can't you feel empowered without make-up? Because you're insecure about how you look naturally. And why is that? 

BECAUSE MAKE-UP COMPANIES & A FUCKED UP SOCIETY. 

Almost all of our insecurity is systematically built up by the exact same shit fed to you by make-up corporations through their inescapable, ferocious advertising. Maybelline entices you to think that beautiful people are born with it, and 'others' can just use their products i.e. if you use Maybelline products, you too can be 'beautiful'  like Adriana Lima (lel). Yeah, thanks Maybelline, a cosmetics company, for 1. setting our beauty standards 2. highlighting our insecurities 3. encouraging us to buy your stuff.

The undeniable truth is that the majority of women don't wear make-up for themselves. Deep down, they DO feel obligated to wear make-up whenever they go out. At work. At parties. Even a trip to the supermarket.

It's why the whole #nomakeupselfie is a fucking thing in the first place. So don't freaking suggest that make-up is a 'solution' to our insecurities... that it's empowering. It's not. 

Instead of defending make-up, we should be defending NO make-up. 

2. Secondly, from what I've seen on social media, girls younger than ever before are experimenting heavily with make-up. Twelve year olds now feel like they have to wear make-up to look good at school because all the other girls are doing it, and largely because they see pictures and tutorials on Facebook, YouTube, Instagram etc. 

While I don't have a personal problem against anyone interested in make-up (and of course, many of my friends are very into it), I WOULD have a problem with society's increasing obsession with make-up if one day, my 13 year old daughter asks me to buy her five different MAC lipsticks and an URBAN DECAY palette because she doesn't want to feel ugly compared to her classmates who all contour their faces with a gazillion different products.

Anyway, I know that scenario ^ is already the norm in many places but I just hope good parenting will give her enough confidence to say "fuck you" to the pressure of wearing make-up in circumstances when she shouldn't have to.  

Another thing - more than ever before, men are also being pressured to look good. There are now make-up lines being developed for men and it is largely accepted as fact that no male K-pop star wanders outside without having applied a layer of foundation. On K-pop websites, there are now 'before' and 'after' pictures of male K-pop stars with and without make-up. 

THIS IS NOT THE WORLD I WANT TO BE IN, OR WANT MY CHILDREN TO LIVE IN. 

ALSO... 

Who the fuck wants to wear a billion layers of primer, foundation, highlighter, bronzer, powder, eyeliner, mascara, brow filler every day? HOW DO YOU DO IT??!?!?!

It takes a ridiculous amount of time to put on and take off; it 99% of the time doesn't even feel comfortable because it's heavy and there's always the fear of smudging your make-up or caking it on something else. You basically cannot touch your face when you have that much make-up on and it sucks. You can't rub your eyes when they're itchy or even rest your head on your fist sitting at a table. 

God. 

End of rant.