The truth is, there is nothing to write when one is happy. I have been deliriously so over the past few months - squandering most of my pay on booze-filled parties, gambling, meeting new people, and going on casual dates that carried the glimmer of hope with the light laughter of non-commitment. Most didn't work out anyway, but like at the mahjong table, I was always prepared to lose, sometimes won a bit, and made new friends around these vices.

Deliriously so. With these I built a bubble of contentment that comprised of the best things that people tell you life should be about - a meaningful job, a host of casual friends, and good times spent with the more loved ones.

Pity that it should start cracking so quickly. All it took one was rejection - one misread game of dating, where I made the beginner's error of mistaking uncertainty for sincerity. This bubble of contentment is rooted in my Achilles heel - built alone, maintained alone, and cracking from the realization of how alone I am.

This mode of existence is a bit pathetic really - thank god I'm going back to NIE.