Postmodernism : The Drinking Game

Since everyone seems to have an unrelenting passion for drinks, here's one for you guys.

RULE ONE: If anyone, at any time, for any reason, believes in, supports, or likes a person, place, or idea, it's only because they haven't uncovered the fundamental contradictions underlying it and you are allowed to laugh at them because they are Less Jaded than you.

QUALIFICATION ONE: If everyone disbelieves in, attacks, or dislikes a person, place, or idea, it's only because they haven't uncovered the fundamental contradictions underlying that disbelief, and you may support that person, place, or idea, and you are allowed to laugh at the other players because they are Less Perceptive than you.

COROLLARY: anyone who explains the rules is an annoying fuck.

Have a drink.

Therapy by Jeremy Lee

"And the Lord turned, and looked upon Peter. And Peter remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said unto him, Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice." Luke 22:61

You ask me why I'm so bitter, so angry. I am willing to tell you my story, if you are willing to believe me. I shall let you in on a secret you must promise never to share with anyone else; I am sick; broken. This is no secret I divulge brazenly, but doctors say I have to confront my demons, they say there has to be an outlet for my emotions, whatever that means. They say writing is therapy, so I guess by the time this is finished I will feel all better. Ooh I'm starting to feel all warm and fuzzy already.

You must think I'm crazy, I assure you I am not. I remember a time when I wasn't always like this, people never used to question my sanity. Never. That wasn't such a long time ago, those times when I used to be full of witty things to say. They have since left me. What remains are shards of broken glass waiting to be pieced together once again. Where are the king's horses and the king's men?

My story begins in the never ending summer of 1967, nineteen years before I was born to be exact, when National Service was introduced to our sunny island of Singapore, under the false pretense that we would be invaded by neighbouring countries if we couldn't protect ourselves due to our minute population. All "Patriotic" men between the ages of 18 and 25 were voluntarily conscripted to serve in the army to defend our motherland from the evil devices of an invisible enemy. My father was no exception, only he was excused due to his tuberculosis ailment, a soldier coughing out blood and spreading this virulent disease around the camps was a commander's worst nightmare. I on the other hand, wasn't so lucky.

At the age of seventeen at the peak of my youthful adolescence, I was subjected to my first medical examination. Not knowing what it entailed, I knocked and entered into a cramped room, medical devices and weird apparatus I had never seen before cluttered the already claustrophobic space. Still, the medical officer in charge did not seem to notice this; he almost seemed bored as he made me perform a series of tests. Like a lab rat I was made to run on the treadmill to make sure my heart was healthy, then pitch tests were conducted to make sure I wasn't tone-deaf, followed by childish picture cards of the rainbow spectrum shown to me to make sure I wasn't colour blind -- these tests never seemed to end. What was this, an audition for kindergarten? There was this one test I have tried so hard to forget which involved me having to remove my shirt and lying down on an examination table, whilst the medical officer strapped me down like I was in Frankenstein's basement.

'Don't move,' he said sternly as he connected snake like nipple clamps that extended from a box-like contraption to my bare chest.

'Well I'm sorry, your nipples aren't sensitive enough, you won't make much of a soldier,' I could picture the medical officer saying. Never had I felt so violated before. What came next, an anal probe? No such luck, but it sure came close. Much later did I figure out that the machine he hooked me up to was an electrocardiograph, a device used to detect heart abnormalities and diseases. After a monotonous barrage of questions I'm sure he repeated at least fifty times a day, the medical officer instructed me to pull down my pants, stand in a corner and give off a cough. This must seem hilarious to you but I assure you it is not. I couldn't not disobey, not even Dad had punished me this way before, and I prayed that the sick and twisted joke this authority was playing would end there and then, with him bursting out in laughter. It didn't.

'Go on,' his glassy brown eyes seemed to offer no explanation of this unjustified perversion bordering on homosexuality. With palms sweating, I asked him in the most polite voice I could summon,

'Sir, why do I have to cough without my underwear?'

'Procedure,' he replied in a stoic fashion.

That was good enough for me. Afraid to offend him, I peeled off my shoes and socks, not even during the run on the treadmill had made my heart beat so quickly. If my heart wasn't palpitating earlier, it sure was then. An EKG would hit off the charts. Mustering what strength I had left, the pants and boxer shorts came off, stark naked as the day I was born. This feeling has a certain je ne sais quoi, being in a foreign environment, your manhood under the scrutiny of a stranger, you feel as if you're being judged. Like crystal clear glass that has been tampered with it is forever tainted, stained.

My feeble attempt of a cough must have satisfied him, for he told me to put my clothes back on and leave. I was physically fit to perform combat duties, and he well intended me to fulfill my obligation to my nation.

As I reminisce, you will have to forgive me if events seem disjointed. My memory these past few months has been hazy at best, me being prescribed Valium and Prozac and God knows what else. If I had a choice, I wouldn't be on these pills. Although Dad doesn't openly disapprove of me being on medication, deep in my heart I know he despises me. The cold shoulder he's been giving me ever since, I bet he thinks it makes me dull. Well, fuck him. Doctors tell me my illness is hereditary. Somewhere deep in that failing brain of his disease lies dormant; festering, planning, waiting for an opportune time to pounce like a tiger does it prey. And when it does, I'm sure he will feel as I've felt, a puppet to the throes of the unfathomable mind, and he shall suffer as I have suffered.

My army life began on April 4^th , 2005, when I was ferried to an island twenty kilometres off the East coast of Singapore. Pulau Tekong was an army training base where 6000 of us recruits were taught basic military skills. This involved us getting our heads shaved on the very first day, and we were to keep our heads shaved for the three months we were there. According to our superiors, this rite of passage was akin to the metamorphosis of a caterpillar to a butterfly, where we were to 'transform' from boys to men. I on the other hand, thought of ourselves more similar to head lice, which sheds its skin 3 times before it becomes an adult. Thats how we looked like without hair anyway. Tekong was a living nightmare, it wasn't the 24 kilometre route marches or the one litre bottles of water they forced you to gulp down in one sitting that was difficult. There were much bigger concerns -- there were no women. None. Zero. Zilch. Tekong was basically a sausage fest to be politically correct, only this lasted 365 days a year. Our raging hormones were kicking in overdrive, testament to the fact that men were the only ones allowed on the island, and the 'modern men' that evolution had painstakingly sculpted us into over thousands of years had regressed back to primitive cavemen in the short span of two weeks. Since the primal urge of attracting the opposite sex was virtually non-existent, there were those who saw no need for privacy. These Neanderthals would walk around the bunks naked, as if they were a phallic deity worthy of worship. I was under the impression that deities had the decency not to scratch their pubes in public, or at the very least have the consideration to use deodorant for their sticky and greasy armpits, but I could have been wrong.

As I sit and wait, staring at my empty plate which minutes before held a tough steak, my thoughts are interrupted by a warm hand which places itself on my shoulder. I turn around to see a familiar face. Thomas was it? I can't really remember. Dressed in neatly pressed white scrubs, his short sloped hair parted neatly to the side, he looks every bit like the matron. He holds up a transparent plastic cup of pills. 'Time to take your medicine,' he says. Like clockwork, he appears religiously after every meal with a clipboard and the Cup. I reach out to receive Communion, only there is nothing sacred about this. Pressing the cup to my lips, I feel the four pills struggle to go down my gullet as I resist the urge to spit them back out, but a chug of water finishes the job. All this while, I know Thomas is staring. I open my mouth wide, swirling my tongue side to side to show him that I have not concealed any pills within the depths of my blood red orifice. This is not a Hollywood movie, but he needs to make sure. 'Procedure, I suppose,' chuckling silently to myself. He scribbles some notes on that precious clipboard he clings on to so dearly and finally walks off. Today is the eleventh day I have been warded under observation - eleven days have sailed past without an attack.

If one thinks that all hospital wards look the same, they have obviously not been to Alexander Institution. Alexander Institution is a polite substitute for Mental Hospital. Instead of the run of the mill white washed walls that are capable of suffocating patients in regular hospitals, here the walls are coated with hues of pastel and earthy tones, light green and sky blue the predominant colours. Even the air here smells different, it does not smell bitter. This army-owned institution is not huge, but is cozy I must admit. Consisting of only six rooms on ground level, it stands near a Nature Reserve, away from the hustle and bustle of urban city life. From the outside, there are no high walls creeping with barbwires or security guards, only two automatic doors open to reveal a reception area. At the end of of the hall are our bunks. Two rows of beds face one another, all fourteen of them visible through a large glass pane that the medics look through from time to time when they think we are asleep. Our little glass house, we call it - as fragile as our minds and bodies. The glass house extends to a courtyard with a pretty garden, where I spend most of my afternoons under the shade of a Bodhi tree doing my projects that my doctor gives me. Two examination rooms are located at the end of the small courtyard, and if we're lucky, the doctors call us in once a day to talk to us, and here we discuss our projects and our emotions and all that feel good stuff.

A well-known guru in the psychiatric field, Dr Tan has been assigned to my case. Accolades hang from his office wall, shiny medals adorn his tabletop. It makes sense though, in his forties, ring finger bare , working in his office till the wee hours of the morning, all evidence points to him being either really dedicated or really miserable. Dr Tan is the one who diagnosed me with something tangible. Before I met him, no one knew what I was suffering from. I was uncategorised; a medical complexity amongst family doctors and army physicians alike. It may sound crazy - I know, I know - but I was relieved when I found out that there was actually a name for my condition. Panic attacks he said, starting me on Cognitive Behavioural Therapy and giving me the appropriate drugs to suppress them. It almost seemed that easy. Not that I have had many attacks, three to be exact, but they were enough. The most recent one occurred on Tekong eleven days ago, when I got into a heated argument with Sergeant Jonas. 'You're confined this weekend to do guard duty, so don't even think about going back home.' he said. Apparently, this simple statement was the trigger that set off an episode. As I have described my symptoms to Dr Tan, I shall try my best to do you a similar justice. No words can describe a panic attack -- all I remember is when it hits me it is the most frightening experience, I feel my body slowly shutting down, my heart seems to have stopped beating and I have difficulties breathing, the asphyxiation choking me till I pass out to a black noise. These attacks seem like a fucking eternity, but in reality it is only five minutes at best.

The sheet of paper stares back blankly at me, it has been doing that for the past one hour or three. In here, time is irrelevant. The only clock we have in the hall serves solely as an entertainment purpose, I watched the hands labour from 7 to 8pm last night. Today my project involves me filling up a questionnaire that Dr Tan has prepared for me. I read the questions for the 97^th time - I am angry because....followed by I am sad because....? the list goes on and on. Therapy is such a bitch. I am tempted to complete the sentences with snide comments, but I know it isn't going to get me discharged any earlier. I look around the courtyard, as usual Edwin is slouched in the armchair I find so uncomfortable. He is my best friend here, although I have never actually talked to him. On second thought, the only time I've seen Edwin open his mouth is for meals and medication. He must be learned, he divides his day equally into reading the King James Bible and staring into space. This one's a philosopher. Pale skin and good-looking even, nothing but the angry red scars at the back of his calves give him away as a Cutter. A philosopher and a cutter. Nice. The juiciest news I share last for dramatic effect, Edwin used to be a medic himself in this very institution a year ago, attending to patients like me. And here I sit below my tree, judging him.

These past eleven days, not once has Dad come to visit. I know he is ashamed that I am sick. Mum on the other hand, visits every other day, bringing me books to kill time. Oops, that word is taboo around here. Occasionally, she joins me below my bodhi tree and we talk about Jesus; I for one believe that with divine intervention, prayer and lots of Valium everything is going to be alright. Not once do we mention Dad, the bastard in denial who gave me my sickness.