Two days ago it was the day itself, Christmas day. My family hosted a Christmas BBQ/gift exchange for the extended paternal family, which went pretty well (except the beef satay; holy shit so much beef satay). One part that left a deep impression in me was the gift exchange. Cousin X received a skincare package including soap, moisturiser and lotion, but being a 13-year-old boy he didn't quite appreciate the value of it. He started complaining about how he got such a crappy present, most likely within earshot of the mystery person who gave it to him, and somehow he was given another chance to choose a present. This time, he got, surprise surprise, a skincare package. While it was pretty unfortunate for him to get two very similar presents which he didn't like, his response propelled him, in my eyes, to face-pulverising levels of brattiness. He began complaining even more loudly about his "crappy present", and demanded to know who had the audacity to prepare such a crappy gift as skincare products for a gift exchange. Remember that the people who prepared those presents almost certainly heard every word of his tirade. Even after his father dragged him aside and gave him a stern warning to shut up (which I felt was very merciful of him because, like I said, face-pulverising), he persisted in letting the world know about his oh-so-horrible Christmas present. He wouldn't shut up until one of my aunts very graciously gave him her present, a waterproof film camera.
Him being thirteen doesn't excuse him from anything. Thirteen is old enough to understand that sometimes you don't get what you want but you have to remain calm anyway and thank the person for giving you anything at all. He single-handedly made me lose even more faith in the Christmas spirit, making me even more disillusioned then I was before (I didn't even know it was possible until it happened).
Boxing Day brought with it the stirrings of old demons I thought I had interred. Inadequacy was the order of the day, mixed with a generous dose of uncertainty and helplessness. I suddenly recalled a personality test I once took as part of a PSC scholarship profiling study for potential applicants. Though I can't find the exact document (what with the house-moving and all), certain key phrases bubbled to the surface: phrases like "indecisive", "unmotivated" and "unambitious" (perhaps unsurprisingly, I ended up not even trying for the scholarship at all). These echoes from the past now ring truer than ever, and they sting more than ever too. Of course, the test was quick to point out that the results are meant to point out our flaws so that we can change for the better, but in hindsight did they really expect the guy they repeatedly called unmotivated and indecisive to spontaneously pick himself up and experience an epiphany?
Then again, who do I have to blame but myself? That's why I do blame myself. I hate myself for it. I hate myself for not doing anything to relieve that hatred.
I'm suddenly reminded of a quote from a game I once played in primary school, Dungeon Siege. In it, there was a humanoid crocodile who ruled as the king of his kind by virtue of his intellect, which was amazing by crocodile standards but still beneath humans. In the hero's final encounter with him, he describes how he slowly gained consciousness but could never break the glass ceiling to achieve human intelligence.
"I was intelligent enough to recognise my own flaws, but never intelligent enough to solve them."
