Monday, May 17, 2004
- "When I get out of this, never again will I curse the sun."
I don't write well in Chinese.
Neither do I write well in the cold.
However, today I was subjecting to do both in the freezing abyss I've come to know as our school's "Theaterette". I guess it should have expected such a place to exist in the grim monolith of Catholic High. How else will they preserve the bodies?
I have this annoying tendency to insist on closing all the doors in air conditioned rooms- you know, to keep the cold air in. The same applied when I first entered the theaterette. I left the door behind me ajar, and unwittingly took my seat at the back of the theaterette. Throughout the beginning of the Chinese lecture, I was constantly annoyed by the open door, and prayed that it would be closed sooner of later.
Unfortunately, it did.
"Unfortunately"?
I regretted wanting the door closed through the next few hours. The cold was unnoticable as first, slowly creeping and smothering us like blanco smothers wrong words. A thick layer that would soon harden, causing the word beneath to be trapped. Soon one by one, after seconds of falsely-assured comfort, we started succumbing to the sub-zero glaciation of that God forsaken refridgerator.
I guess its a bit hard to understand the torment we were in, so let me try to paint a clear picture, though im very sure it would be fogged up by the very mention of that arctic coffin.
Usually, we write words by moving our wrists right? Well, then, we couldnt feel out wrists. Or our hands for that matter. The only way we were sure they were still there was either by sight, or (after the extreme frigidity started causing hallucinations) by furiously slamming them against the wooden wall. Not too hard though, for fear that our hands would crack like after how T-1000 did when he was splashed by liquid-nitrogen. But we don't form back, and the bruises remain.
So we didn't move our wrists to write. We moved our whole arms. Yup, hand writing in the room hit an all time low. It was then did i start to hate the tiny one-by-one boxes of chinese composition paper. i couldn't even blanco properly. Sometimes i whited-out words which i wrote correctly. This meant that i had to invest gruelling effort to write it well again. Combined with the barrage of uncontrollable shivers i recieved on random occasions, this usually took about a minute.
My hands were so numb that I didnt notice even if the pen came loose by accident, causing it to sway here are there on the paper like a hard-tipped brush. However, this did save me the hassle of prying them off when I needed to switch to using blanco instead. I.e, all the time.
Also, after a while my hands started to turn blue. This was disturbing at first, but after the sane part of my brain became raw (You know, when i was afraid licking my pen would cause my tongue to stick to it), I was actually amused by how it matched the colour of my pen ink.
But all this was no match for what happened after the lecture. Dashing out of the theaterette to the nearby canteen like a madman free from his assylum (straight jacket still well attached), i was bumped by a fellow student, and a cube of ice from his finished beverage hit me on the arm. I stared at it as it slid off. It felt warm.
ICE FELT WARM.
All in all, a fun time i was definitely undeserving of. Tomorrow i will be once again subjected to that locus of algidity, and this time i will bring thick gloves.
"Wont it be hard to write in those things?" you ask?
Hard?
Definitely.
Harder?
No way.
I don't write well in Chinese.
Neither do I write well in the cold.
However, today I was subjecting to do both in the freezing abyss I've come to know as our school's "Theaterette". I guess it should have expected such a place to exist in the grim monolith of Catholic High. How else will they preserve the bodies?
I have this annoying tendency to insist on closing all the doors in air conditioned rooms- you know, to keep the cold air in. The same applied when I first entered the theaterette. I left the door behind me ajar, and unwittingly took my seat at the back of the theaterette. Throughout the beginning of the Chinese lecture, I was constantly annoyed by the open door, and prayed that it would be closed sooner of later.
Unfortunately, it did.
"Unfortunately"?
I regretted wanting the door closed through the next few hours. The cold was unnoticable as first, slowly creeping and smothering us like blanco smothers wrong words. A thick layer that would soon harden, causing the word beneath to be trapped. Soon one by one, after seconds of falsely-assured comfort, we started succumbing to the sub-zero glaciation of that God forsaken refridgerator.
I guess its a bit hard to understand the torment we were in, so let me try to paint a clear picture, though im very sure it would be fogged up by the very mention of that arctic coffin.
Usually, we write words by moving our wrists right? Well, then, we couldnt feel out wrists. Or our hands for that matter. The only way we were sure they were still there was either by sight, or (after the extreme frigidity started causing hallucinations) by furiously slamming them against the wooden wall. Not too hard though, for fear that our hands would crack like after how T-1000 did when he was splashed by liquid-nitrogen. But we don't form back, and the bruises remain.
So we didn't move our wrists to write. We moved our whole arms. Yup, hand writing in the room hit an all time low. It was then did i start to hate the tiny one-by-one boxes of chinese composition paper. i couldn't even blanco properly. Sometimes i whited-out words which i wrote correctly. This meant that i had to invest gruelling effort to write it well again. Combined with the barrage of uncontrollable shivers i recieved on random occasions, this usually took about a minute.
My hands were so numb that I didnt notice even if the pen came loose by accident, causing it to sway here are there on the paper like a hard-tipped brush. However, this did save me the hassle of prying them off when I needed to switch to using blanco instead. I.e, all the time.
Also, after a while my hands started to turn blue. This was disturbing at first, but after the sane part of my brain became raw (You know, when i was afraid licking my pen would cause my tongue to stick to it), I was actually amused by how it matched the colour of my pen ink.
But all this was no match for what happened after the lecture. Dashing out of the theaterette to the nearby canteen like a madman free from his assylum (straight jacket still well attached), i was bumped by a fellow student, and a cube of ice from his finished beverage hit me on the arm. I stared at it as it slid off. It felt warm.
ICE FELT WARM.
All in all, a fun time i was definitely undeserving of. Tomorrow i will be once again subjected to that locus of algidity, and this time i will bring thick gloves.
"Wont it be hard to write in those things?" you ask?
Hard?
Definitely.
Harder?
No way.
