Butterfly hates colleague

Some events have come into my life that needs immediate addressing ( and the occassional cathartic rant.) There's no abeyance in my social life, the lack of update is only a result of insufficient time. Call it poor time management, call it an addiction to the bottle, call it a tease...

There's someone whom I've been sharpening a pencil the whole week just so that it'll be sharp enough to stab her in the eye from me just flicking it.

Meet my colleague. REENA.

I don't know if it's possible, but this woman obviously took a license to be stupid. No one can ever be this stupid and not been punched in the face growing up. I know she hasn't, cos I asked her.

Her hobbies includes glue-sniffing and snorting peas up her nose. In her spare time, she takes courses on stupidity and constantly applies for admission to the Children School for Spastics. You think I'm mean? Go fuck yourself, then come work with her for a week. She's so dumb, she can convince me she invented stupidity.

Who the fuck,

1. Comes to ask you if they've sent an email.

She: "Hey erm.. this one (points to document) I sent email already anot?"
Me: "REENA! CHECK THE SENT ITEMS!"
She: "I know. I know. I just... ok I go check"

All she does is say "I know" then she comes back with moronic amendments to her work.

2. Sends wrong emails and blames people.

Just the other day she sent a mail to another colleagues email. We sniggered over it, then I decided to point out her mistake. Normal people with decent brains will send a virus to wipe out the server to erase all evidence of such a moronic act.

She, the village idiot, goes over to blame my colleague for the file ending up in the email, then mumbles inconherently to herself. I heard, "dunno who.." and "anyhow send.." amongst the spew of coded hexes.

3. Prints 50 copies of a same document.

She almost fried the printer, then wondered why there was 50 copies when she only needed 5. This was a huge mystery to her, so I furtively slipped a letter opener into her document file. Just so that she could save the headache and puncture her temporal lobes with it.

4. Soils the chair.

Yes, You read this right. There's a story to this.

The other day over lunch, my other colleagues were sniggering and sharing an inside joke which exluded me from comprehension. Since I'm a genius with more tattoos than Reena has brain cells, it takes me 20 secs to figure that I'm the butt of the joke.

Me: "What's so funny?!"

Ivy: "You sat on her chair just now..."
Me: "SO?!"
Ivy: "You don't know what happened issit?"

This is obviously the worst way to start a story. I brace myself.

Faiz: "Kev and I were laughing about it yesterday.. didn't you hear??!?!"
Me: "Hear WHAT?!"
Faiz: "About her chair.."
Me: "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH IT?!"

My agitation and impatience only fuels the hilarity of it. For them. My exasperation is greeted only by a pandemonia of chuckles, giggles and cachination.

Ivy: "You mean you didn't see the stain?!"
Me: "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!? WHAT STAIN?!"

Me: "IS IT A SHIT STAIN?!"
Ivy: "No lah, blood lah.."

What the fuck has she been doing the past 25 years? Sticking tampons in her nose? Nothing is more absurd than a 40 year old staining the fabric. Or so I thought..

Faiz: "You know she tried to clean it right?"
Me: "I KNOW SHIT! WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME BEFORE I SAT DOWN!?"
Ivy: "She tried to clean it and now the seat has white stains.."

I don't know what the fuck she did to achieve such a mark. Her intellectual capacity tells me that she most probably tried to use correction fluid to clean it off. She apparently could not understand how she stained herself ( and more importantly, the seat) without even realising. If I menstruated , I'd probably frame her, but last I checked, I still had my blood sausage.

5. Fucks up data entry.

Data entry is a job made for even retards to redeem themselves. How the fuck do you do the same job for 3 months, and STILL forget procedures? I know she has a valid reason, because she's a moron.

The only thing worse than her two finger typing is her inability to differentiate 'Cut' from 'Copy'. She goes into epileptic shock when her data disappears and grumbles over having to type it again. I obviously don't bother correcting her. Her frantic spasm of panic is such an afternoon sideshow.

Her Path of Destruction,

If you thought I was good at ruining lives, you've never met her.

In 2 weeks, she's managed to get the Director of a Shipping Liner to send an email to complain about her. Amazing. One lady customer asked me, and I quote,

Lady: "Is she slow or is she stupid?"

Instead of pacifying my client, I broke into a laugh and nearly peed my pants. I'd also correspond with clients and bitch about her stupidity and we'd share stories on her fuck ups. Naturally, no one tops my 'she stained her chair story'.

I don't give a fuck. If you stain your chair and you try to deny it, you WILL be laughed at. I'm sorry but I feel no remorse that she is leaving. i have a champagne all ready for the day she throws in the towel. I just hope she's smart enough to spell, "resignation"

Butterfly Goes KL

The thing about spontaneity is that it’s inherently bi-polar. Things either work or they fuck up. I’ve experienced both sides of this dichotomy and I’ll tell you this much, everything should be done at the spur of a moment.

Last Fri, we took a trip up to Kuala Lumpur, without even a simple plan on how to get there and where to stay. All we had was an objective,

TO PARTY.

And a mode of transport,

A 1 yr old Colt, courtesy of Ash.

To complete this simple sentence, our holiday was built on one word. Enthusiasm. And crumbled by 2 other, Laziness and Stupidity.

All we planned was to drive up there after I was done with my daily contribution to the rat race. The plan was to reach KL by 10pm, have a hearty supper, then party away till dawn. It’s funny how the execution of such simplicity is beyond us.

2 things we failed to foresee.

1. The Causeway traffic congestion.

We got stuck in the jam for about an hour and realized how much of an asshole Singaporean drivers can be. NO ONE wants to give way to us. By the time we hit Malaysian soil, it was fast approaching 10pm, and the next immediate aim was to get to KL before Christmas.

2. How to drive there.

While we had the transport all figured out, we failed to anticipate the navigational hazards. Firstly, none of us knew how to actually get there, except for the part on having to take the NS Highway. Even when we finally did hit the highway, none of knew how to get to KL city, since we presumed the highway led right into the city.

This is the eventual debacle.. Bear with me, I’m giving you as close an account. Its going to get boring at some point so get ready some regular porn and hit Alt + Tab after every 2 paragraphs or so.

LB, RoundEyes and Ash made up my companions. All of them dragged into this whirlpool of my crazy weekend getaway device.

RoundEyes drove for the entire stretch of highway, zipping down the road in excess of 150km, while the Colt’s engine whined away and stressed as the tachometer revved away close to the redline. The only thing between us and reaching KL before midnight was the periodic breaks to the toilet and for the guys to light up. I was strongly advised against packing alcohol with me, given my propensity to pee uncontrollably.

We reached KL in under 3 hrs, despite hazardous driving conditions, which at some point of time included heavy downpours and maniacal Proton drivers. I swear to you, those milk boxes with wheels think they own the fucking road. We finally reached KL only to be greeted by idiots at the toll booths, who’s English rivaled that of epileptic patients at a college debate.

I re-evaluate the situation as LB led us to a food centre. It’s closing in on 12.30, we’ve not had dinner and the clubs (the decent ones at least) closes at 3am. I contemplated skipping supper but forgoing RM13 crabs are cardinal sins and I could never forgive myself, EVER.

When we finally left the place past 2am and we had under an hour left to Check-in to a hotel and find this trance club, Atmosphere. Did you really think I’d travel 330km to party at Zouk KL? The only thing worth traveling that far for, is a rave club. If you’ve not been to one, don’t. When people start saturating these kind of parties, the authorities start clamping down and I lose another avenue of vice.

Some guy at the carpark told us some other pub to check out in the vicinity since most of the clubs in KL itself are closed due to regulations. I lost focus on his directional instructions because he was telling me ‘Left” by indicating with his right, and I spent the next 20 seconds wondering if morons ran amok here.

The consequence of not preparing a map or furnishing ourselves with adequate road knowledge was slowing fucking us straight in the ass. We missed a turn and ended up detouring outside the KL city centre. With the car running out of fuel and road signs that made no sense, we made an obvious decision to pull over for gas,

Turned out to be the best decision all night because I got some faggish guy in a Kencil to take us all the way into town.

I won't even bother telling you how much the campy hotel we stayed freaked me out and how we had to tussle over sleeping space, but with lodging for the night settled, I turned my attention to more pressing matters at hand. Only one promise land awaited my conquest…

A rave club.

3.30am: We finally reach the club, Raven. How appropriate to name a rave club. I would never have thought of this.

3.32am: I start brisk walking, half breaking out into a hop as I hurried along to the entrance.

3.33am: Two dudes at the door stop me from going in. They start eyeing me with suspicion and I swear they were trying to size me up.

Dude: “Where you want go?”
Me: “ERmm… in?”
Dude: “Why you want to go in?”

I start tilting by body side to side, arms flailing at my chest. The international ISO signal for dancing.

Me: “I want to go dance.”

3.34am: Chinese Ah Beng from the Young and Dangerous extras department comes out.

Ah Beng: “You want go in for what? Here got sweep..”
Me: “Huh? It’s closed?! For sweeping?!”
Ah Beng: “Police sweep! These two are policemen”

He points to the two dudes who had earlier stopped me from entering. They continue eyeing me with contempt.

Police Dude: “Where you come from?”
Me: “Singapore..”

And before I know it, I’m asking some of the dumbest questions ever.. to a cop.

Me: “Eh bung, where else can I go party?”

Police dude stares at me.. EVERYONE stares at me… LB is walking away from me.

LB: “Butterfly you are an idiot. WHERE GOT PEOPLE ASK POLICE ABOUT RAVE CLUBS?!”

3.50am: Unsatisfied with the lack of alcohol, we make a second attempt at a second rave club. From what we hear, this is one of the most popular rave joints in town. Entry to the place is strictly monitored and facilitated by closed shutters.

3.55am: I hear techno music reverberating against the wall. This is good.

4.10am: Everyone is licking their lips. We get the hint.

4.17am: Ash comes to tell us that two girls are breaking E in the toilet and everyone there seems to be taking it like nuns to communion.

The place is pretty much a compartmentalized drug watering hole. Imagine PartyWorld, now throw out the karaokes and sardine pack it with a drug fucked youths who can no longer count beyond twenty. You have yourself, Narigato.

Ironically, the clubs that patronize the government endorsements of drug-free clubs by plastering their walls with no-drug signs are the biggest peddlers and recreational facility. This is the best place to have your pants pulled down for you in the cubicle. Well, that did happen the last time I stepped foot into a methylenedioxyamphetamine factory outlet.

Apart from the ugly Malaysian chicks at the clubs and the guys with 90’s ‘Ah Beng’ spilled all over them, there was nothing absolutely repulsive about the place. Had we arrived here 3 hours earlier, I would have coaxed myself to stay and watch people make a fool of themselves and hoped someone would want me to pee on them.

Edit: I'll continue the post and our bday party at MoS the following night later.

My Birthday Wish

Last night I wished for..

Someone with,

a face that screams seduction, a kickass body that will make Lucifer proud, huge knockers and the tighest ass. Someone unbelievably witty and funny, who will take me for the ass that I am and try to hook me up with hot chicks from time to time.

Someone who cooks a mean steak and will debate with me over who's better, Batista or Brock Lesnar.

And she has to be an exotic mix of Japanese and some other less important race, like inherent bisexual and nymphomaniac

You think I'm asking for the impossible?

Then tell it to those who dream and wish for world peace.

I can care less if the world degenerates into chaos, as long as I have this girl. I'll be on the moon anyway, and when I get bored of her.. I'll go fuck Martians.

The Condom Story

Condoms are wicked. I swear, they are out to ruin me.

I don't usually carry one around because I've always believed anticipation to be a jinx. It's usually the case. Sex pops up on you like pimples and hits you when you're least prepared. I say, don't try to play the Game, let the Game play out itself. You dig me, playa?

I was clearing my room the other day when I found a condom in one of my travel pouches. With my mum 3 feet from me, I slipped it into one of my pants pocket and went off. Not that my mum would squirm at the sight, but its really more about respect. Though... I suspect my mum has been secretly replenishing my travel condom stock. She slipped a pack of 8 into my bag when I went to OZ. My mum is like yours.. she overestimates me.

The problem is, this particular condom has been around me for sometime now and it's probably been with me since Sept last year. No shit. I know it cos its the only one that isn't Durex. I'll tell you why condoms are a curse...

When I first bought this whole box, I was anticipating a hectic schedule for my member. Some minor signs pointed to this, like hooking up with 2 different girls under 24hrs of each. I anticipated a bout of regularity to hit my life and decided to invest in a 12 pack. The first of the 12 was eventually used for a VERY disturbing encounter... the Sugar Mummy Story.

Then it all went downhill. I hit a barren patch. Nothing other then my boxers gave me the occassional tickle. For 2 weeks, I didn't see breast and wondered if they were under renovation. The next two girls I ended up with didn't require me wear one, due to hormone pills and other contraceptives. Unless pregnancy counts as an STD, I should be pretty safe.

This brought me up to Nov with still a good pack of 11. When I was left with the final 4, I packed them into my jeans pocket for my solo trip to OZ. The damn thing ended up sounding off the metal detactor at the baggage check point and I was forced to clear my pockets. This was absolutely wonderful. Removing condoms from your pocket to show the female officers, while everyone else sniggered. Nothing else describes me better as sex starved moron. You can bet they kept me under close surveillance.

I used up 2 earlier this year in the now notorious attempted foursome that went very wrong. Only two of the entire previous 8 were used in sex that actually turned out well. I messed up about 2 because I was too pissed drunk to even tell tits from earlobes and ended up trying to re-use them much to my partners disgust.

She: "ARE YOU TRYING TO ROLL IT BACK?!"

I kept this last one in the pouch till the start of this month, when I finally got down to cleaning my room. I left it lying in one of my jeans pocket because as much as I hate subscribing to superstitions, condoms have been an ominous talismans of bad luck for me. I have been through enough to know that anticipaction leads to disappointment.

Even the last piece is out to destroy my life..

Over lunch the other day, I was standing around discussing about what to eat. I remembered reaching for my wallet in my pants then taking it out to check for cash. Between this and 30 secs of conversation, I see my friend staring at my shoes.

He: "What's that? Behind your feet.."

His face ia a mix of puzzled amusement over the imposssiblity of this. A condom lying in the middle of a foodcourt floor..

He: "Is that a ... "

He almost breaks out into a laugh. I look back and see the unmistakable silver back of the wrapping. Did it just fall out? Either that, or the cleaning auntie hasn't been doing her job and there's still remains from the last mass foodcourt orgy.

Me: "Wah condom.. shioks."

I immediately pick it up and slip it into my pocket. He looks at me giggling over the whole absurdity of it..

Me: "Nothing beats free condoms.. Maybe we should look for the free blowjob booth."
He: "I can't believe you found something like that here."

I am so sneaky.. I love it. I start giggling to myself over my obviously great play acting and situational skills. I should be Prime Minister.

He: "Why would there even be a condom lying in the middle of nowhere? Weird right?"
Me: "What are you talking about? Its free!"
He: "Are you even going to use them.. not safe you know.."
Me: "Babe, it's a condom. You don't get any safer than this..."

Condoms are like your Fixed Deposits. They are reliable and they almost never fail, but they also give you bad returns and you're always below desired satisfaction. It's so safe you can go to war with it. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for safe sex. I lock my doors and keep a revolver under my pillow.

Given any other situation, I'll NEVER pick it up, but this is mine. I swear this aluminium pack has a life of its own, and it's the advocate of retribution. It's ALWAYS trying to ruin me with situational embarassment.

He: "I don't know man.. I still think it's fishy..."

Wrestling Rules

Wrestling is perhaps the greatest evening entertainment, ever. It has all the great makings of a soap opera. Bad acting, trashy repetitive plots that is written by 8yr old meth addicts and appeals to a mass audience for being ludicrously entertaining.

"This is stupid. Wrestling is dumb." She says to me, slumping on the couch topless as she moves her foot against my crotch. Gently teasing me.

Me: "ARE YOU CRAZY!? THIS IS THE BEST SHIT EVER!"

I've been repressed before. I used to be banned from watching this crass physical excuse of a sport by the Ex-Gf and I specifically remembered how I had to sneak in a few minutes of it while she's in the ladies, freshening up. That's then.. NO ONE tells me wrestling is crap from now on.

She: "Wrestling is obviously fake. What's the point.."

Me: "Do you want to take a bodyslam? Or a shot to the throat?! This is the best entertainment ever. Be quiet.."

She kicks my thigh.

She: "What's so great about this?"
Me: "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING??! HAVE YOU NOT SEEN WRESTLING?!"

Pardon me if I wade into a sociological discourse. For the closet intellect, drop to your knees and thank God you found me. For start, Professional Wrestling is a framed activity, a staged performance that inverts societal norms. The pronounced boundaries of the ring, re-create a pseudo reality, a separation of fact from fiction. The ring reconstructs these norms and implements its own set of regulations. It is the only place where violence is a legitimate course of action and it’s the great denominator in which EVERYTHING is resolved with.

So if you say it’s fake, why watch it? Your damn OC and LOST are fake too, and I don’t see you complaining about that. The thing is and which most ignorant bigots fail to realize is that, professional wrestling was created solely as an entertainment sport. There is nothing to complain about when it offers good action and a carnal entrée of flesh parades.

Wrestling has also imparted me an arsenal of chokeholds which make for good bedroom antics (only if mild violence wets you). I don’t want to hear another word of it being fake. I will powerbomb your ass if I hear you even breathe a word.

Have you not seen wrestling?! It should run for comedy of the year. Everyone speaks with a hint of constipation and is always in deep pant, which makes you wonder if there's an orgy going on backstage. I love it cos it’s my guilty pleasure (yes even ahead of the M word). Everyone only has two facial expressions, rage and that arrogant smirk. You need so little brains to understand and pre-empt everything that is going to happen. I only wish bookies took bets on wrestling.

She starts teasing me right in the middle of Batista beating the ass crap out of Kennedy. I do the obligatory butt and boob grab, then tilt my head to catch the match.

She: “You can watch your wrestling in peace you know..”

I’m faced with a life altering decision. I weigh the odds.

I miss Batista beat the living crap out of some silly man, lose the chance to pick up new maneuvers but the possibility of good sex is within an arms reach, literally.

I decide no one corners me with choices and I proceed to rake her eyes then follow up with a swinging neck-breaker.

I kdding. Men in briefs groping each other in the squared circle is never going to pry me away from life’s greater purpose, sex. But if you pull the sex card again, I will bodyslam you. Unless you're hot.. which should usually be the case.

The Butterfly's 'To-Do' List

There are some things in life I've marked as calender dates with infamy and immortality. Like all mere mortals, I have dreams and goals. My life isn't always about sex and alcohol, it's also about accomplishing things before I hit 30. I'm living an accerated life, packing it with a nauseating dose of vice and good fortune to have what I want, so far..

You should have read enough about me to know that morals are liabilities I cannot afford for the life I'm living. I am void of it, only for the set of mutable code of conduct I adhere to.. usually. While I am an asshole, there are stuff which I pride myself with. And that is honesty, my only gift of a smutty pleasantry for those privileged enough to know me by name.

You must know that I, have NEVER sweet talked anyone just for a good romp in the sack and breakfast in bed the morning after. Come to think of it, I'll almost NEVER say anything remotely sweet. Scarletrose, constantly reminds me that I am mean and almost nothing nice ever comes out of me. Hence my intrinsic vlaue. There is never a contrivance in the way I date or hook up. My success is helmed upon my ability to thrill and entice you.

I'm writing this only because recently I've added another check to my list. I FINALLY did something that has long eluded me. For now, I'll save the story. Instead, I'll share with you my list. Call it a validation of growing up, castigate me for my ignominies or worship my chef-d'oeuvre (if you call what I do an art), a name by any other still deserves commendation. This is..

The Butterfly's List of Disapprobation. My list to accomplish before I dispairingly turn 30.

1. Date/hook up up with a Japanese .
2. Koreans
3. Vietnameses
4. Thais
5. PRCs
6. Hong Konger
7. Caucasians (Any will do, as long as you're white)
8. Taiwanese
9. Malaysian / Indonesian
10. Indian

I've not done 2, 7 and 10. I really want to do a 2, might want to do a 7 and don't really wish to do a 1o. That's me, it's personal.

11. Fuck a girl with Tattoo
12. Fuck twins
13. Fuck a transsexual
14. Fuck a lesbian
15. Fuck a Golden retriever (just checking if you're paying attention)

I'm only adding point 13 because I'm pretty sure at one point in my life, I will be too piss drunk to tell fact from fiction and I'll wake up next to a post Op. Hey, I call that retribution. She'd better be hot.

16. Fuck a Nurse
17. Air Stewardess
18. A Teacher
19. Bartender
20. An Accountant or anything in a power suit.
21. A DJ
22. A Lawyer
23. A Doctor
24. A Model
25. A Mother
26. A Waitress
27. A Car Sales Exec
28. A Celebrity (Someone really famous)
29. A Dancer
30. A Wanton Mee Hawker

Oh yes, even I have professional fetishes. Nothing beats a sweaty 45 yr old auntie with unshaved armpits, frying my plate of Fried Oysters. UMMMM yummy.

Ok these are the serious ones.

31. Back-packing round Europe
32. Travel First Class
33. Get a tattoo
34. Film my own movie (even if it's porn)
35. Run down the street naked.
36. Get thrown out the club.
37. Travel the whole Singapore on MRT, in a day
38. Watch Sunset / Sunrise
39. Fall in love in 24hrs
40. Attend a wedding and a funeral in the same day
41. Bungee jump
42. Stike 4D or Toto
43. Drive a Ferrari
44. Wear a dress to a club
45. A FFM threesome.
46. Date someone taller/fatter
47. Drink 20 shots in a night
48. Have a drink named after me --> I really want this. There should be a drink called, Butterfly
49. Write a book
50. Grow old with someone.

Naturally I've accomplish some of the things here but I've also added more things to the list through time. It's really an inexhaustable list, matched only by my insatiable appetitite for gratification. The list is close to being 100 items long but I won't divulge to you in my emotional intimacies.

There are things I've done and people whom I've met in this past year or so that has influenced me in more ways than one. I've met alot of them, some have touched me with tears and kisses, and others through a really mean blowjob. I love them all, some more than others. Some have taken my breath away and others my breakfast and lunch. Yes, even for me, life is fair.

My life is sometimes somnambulistic. I wade dreamily through accquaintences and I have no conscience nor self-moderation. I'm slowly beginning to grow weary of my casket social lifestyle and my interest in anything sexual is based on certain ascribed novelty factors. When it comes to hook ups, the routine of vanilla sexual foreplay is getting to me.

I have yet to, but will in the close future, FINALLY commit to anal, on a girl (NATURALLY SO!!). It's a new frontier that I've been avoiding and rejecting. I need a new addiction in life, I've after all done it with chemically induced nymphos, and once you experience THEIR kind of enthusiasm, you'd rather have your dog lick off your balls than hook up with anyone who thinks oral sex is about dirty pillow talk.

EDIT: I accomplished one more feat. I am king.

Butterfly Hates Desaru

If there was ever a place that needs to be buried in 10 feet of volcanic ash, it's Desaru. It's officially the WORST holiday spot EVER. I know, postcard white sandy beaches and crystal clear waters are but an urban utopian mirage, a myth, an Atlantis that we always seek but never find. Not with shallow pockets at least. But Desaru is the Devil's reject hut. I'm better off watching transsexual midget porn.

The transport there told me everything about how wrong a holiday could get. A campy mini bus with unreclinable seats and lingering scent of cheap morning aftershave, decorated with relics of the past weeks potato chip party wedged between seats. Lovely. I wished I brought along a deflatable sex doll to make out with.

Some asshole told me Desaru was about an hrs drive from the customs checkpoint. I took a nap, woke up about 2 hours later to find that we're still on the road. Another half hour later, I'm convinced Desaru is located near Beijing. I wake up periodically mumbling things like,

"Are we in China.."

"When are we passing the next LV store."

I'll tell you where Desaru is.

It's a fucking 2 1/2 hour drive from civilisation. It's at a place where the Devil abandoned because it drove him mad with boredom. Do you know why Hitler has one testicle? He cut the other one off when he tried staying here for 2 nights. You drive through ENDLESSLY on oil palm lined roads and teaser posters of Desaru with backgrounds that are always coupled with a girl in white swimwear lying on a white sandy beach, and what's waiting for you at the end of the rainbow?

An ugly green leprechaun trying to fuck your pinkie. Metaphorically.

I now realised why they put Desaru off the main NS Highway. It was a faint attempt to save accidental tourists or (hands up if this is you) coerced holiday participation. The damn Tsunami needs to get it right the next time and wipe this one off the map.

We turn into the resort and I see monkey's scurrying out. Great welcome, would have loved bikini babes but squirrels and monkeys are ok. Stop here if you have a Desaru trip planned.. I am about to destroy everything about it.

1. I get there and see a pool.

Simple equation. Pool = bikini = girls = great afternoon entertainment

My lack of forsight is quickly pronounced by the kids infested baby pool.

Simple equation. Kids = mothers = saggy boobs

I am at a kindergarten graduation party. It has to be because there is no one else around that doesn't have a kid. Mothers are swimming in T-shirts and I'm beginning to wonder if stupidity is geographically confined.

2. The beach

Have you seen a beach with more dead leaves than sand? No? Go there. You'll knock yourself out just choosing which leaf to use as a bookmark.

I not sure if this qualifies as a beach. I'm pretty sure you need at least one topless sun-bathing chick to legitmately call it one. I get there and the closest thing to a bikini is a 50yr old man fishing from shore. Read it right. FROM SHORE. I'm wrong, this has to be the jetty then.

I can take a piss in the playground and call my puddle a beach and you'll enjoy it so much better. Unless you are planning a mass suicide there, there's nothing much you can do. Oh wait.. I'm wrong...

3. The Activities Board.

How can there be nothing to do when the Activities board is plastered with a myraid of curriculum, that is written by spastics while they are on their 3rd joint of pot. It includes,

- "Meditate on the beach to nature's sound"
- "Fun in the pool with friends"
- "Meet new friends"
- "Enjoy the Desaru sun"

Yippie, this has to be more fun than strip poker. I start jumping for joy and piss my pants from all the excitement. There's no place I'd rather be doing all that. The Desaru sun has to be good. I travelled 3 hours, gave up a Saturday and I have no one to fuck. I hope I get skin cancer and die while meeting new people at the pool. Death is so much easier than the weekend I'm going to have.

4. Everyone whispers.

Is it me or is every Malaysian there due for a vocal chord surgery? EVERYONE fucking whispers when they answer me. For crying out loud, all I did was ask for cards and I had to strain to catch the reply like I'm in a broken telephone game. Just fucking talk like a man! I'm not even asking you for condoms! It's cards from Christ's sake.

5. My Room

No complaints. My room was decent save for the balcony door that's spoilt, the flush that's leaking and the air-con that broke down on us. All that's left is to find a Bangladeshi hiding away in the wardrobe.

I get there to find 1 Queen sized bed and 1 single. I need to find someone to sleep with for the night. I look out the window to see what looks like the community centre line dancing troop and decide I'll rather get drunk and give this toilet bowl a good licking.

If anyone tells you Desaru is fun, punch them in the nose. They are obviously liars.

The only thing worth my memory was the drinking session we had at night after dinner and that's ONLY becuase I almost caused a break up. I'd love to tell you a story of how I stole a kiss, but nothing of that sort happened. It all started over a game of "I have never". If you don't know the game I've no interest in explanation.

For those who know the game.. read on.

Me: "I have never had sex in a hotel."

Couple A, both drinks. I drink. Couple B, girl doesn't drink. Guy drinks. She stares at him.

She: "SINCE WHEN DID YOU HAVE SEX IN A HOTEL?!?!"

Guy tries to trivialize it by waving her off. There is NO WAY I'm going to let this end with a whimper. I make a quick pact with God that if this blows out of porportions, I'll stay sober for the whole night. This is better than Jerry Springer.

She: "NO!! I WANT TO KNOW! WHEN DID YOU HAVE SEX IN A HOTEL?!!? I KNOW I DIDN"T!!"

In the middle of her hysterically interrogating him, I break into a laugh.

Me: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA I love it when this shit happens. HAHAHAHAHAHA"

Some of them look at me with enough contempt to accuse Eunuchs of masturbating. Fuck them. If you can't play a game without getting upset, you should NEVER hang around me. I can't begin to describe the sheer stupidity of people after a few drinks. Look, its not like we took a vow of death to tell the truth. If you have to, LIE. It's just a drinking game.. people should never impose morals or integrity on games made for social cohesion.

Butterfly Gets Pimped To A Whale

My life is at a saturation point of boredom. This past Friday, I actually threw all regularity out and did two things you would NEVER imagine. Note, I was lying when I said it was my birthday. Everyday should be, but it isn't. To those that sent me well wishes, I'll forward that to the 31st when it's the actual date.

I was in attendance at a Christian Rock concert. Not on a voluntary impulse, but largely because I was presented with a blind option.

Kev: "Hey, I bought tickets for to a Christian rock concert for you and Dennis. It's on Fri. You can go right?"

I didn't know whether to shout for joy or for a butcher's knife. I waited for the second option.

Kev: "We'll go together after work."

Great, I started wondering if he had my low calories diet meal all planned out for the week too.

The concert was decent, save for the fact that I was the least enthusiatic soul in the whole hall. If you've been to anything organised by Christians, you'll know that they shout and cheer at everything. They started frowning at my nonchalance to every other song which they ALWAYS tell me,

"This is the best song!"

I excused myself to the toilet and saw a boy seated next to the door, immersed in his PSP. I am now officially the 2nd least enuthsiastic person. I start eyeing him with the same contempt people have been giving me all night.

I headed to MOS after that. Nothing beats giving debauchery alittle attention after church. My night there was promised to be a tempestous affair for my ailing liver. It started with an afternoon tease of,

Reznor: "Tonight MOS, drinks.."

Then it blew into an afternoon orgasm to cure my prosiac work life.

"3 bottles of Whiskey.."

You have no idea what these words do to me. If wetting my pants in excitement was still legitimately normal for 25yr olds, I'd have peed right in them.

I managed to convince HB (more commonly known to some of you as The Horny Bitch), that her morning flight deserves her going to work drunk. Since some of you might have read her post of the night, I'll need to iron out some minor details.

We get to the place and start off casually with a glass of wine. My motley crew is late and only GT4 is here with us for appetizers. 30mins later, pissed with Reznor for being late, we begin the road to damnation without him.

Ash comes to join us and HB remarks about her being hot. I pay no attention to complements not directed to me and continue drinking. I take out my glow sticks and do what I do best. Get attention.

If you’ve been out drinking with me, you’ll know that alcohol is my one excuse for being a TOTAL asshole. I’ll brand anything unsightly with derogatory terms, trash talk and practically poke fun of anyone you want me to.

Then she appears. Bumping up and down as clumpsily as her stubby feet carried her. The whale, the one thing that will definitely ensure my passport to retribution. Right, in case you're reading for the first time, I term all things obese as whales.

I tell my friend, Faith,

Me: "HOO SHIT, she definately paid $50 bucks to come in."
Faith: "HAHAHHHAHAHAHA.....That's damn mean of you..."

I go over to HB,

Me: "I am going take a picture with her. You are going to take one for me."

HB begins with telling me (like everyone does) how mean I am, then starts laughing at the whole idea. She is obviously going to hell with me.

Ash comes in and we pitch her the plan,

Ash: "Need my help? I can help you, you know."
Me: "I do not need help."

Ash goes over and starts talking to the Whale which looks to devour her with a nibble. She looks like a plankton next to Free Willy. This is great. I have one hot girl pimping me to marine life. If I have to rate my chances, I'll say it's a good perfect 10. I need to be honest, I didn't pick her up, Ash actually did most of the work.

2 mins later, Ash is walking over with the Whale.

Ash: "This is Butterfly, he'll like to have a picture taken with you."
Whale: "Hi! Nice to meet you."

I signal for HB to ready the camera. This requires some amount of skill to fit us both in the piture.

Whale: "Hey, nice!" [pointing to my glowsticks] "My favourite colour!"
Me: "Really? Good, I hate this colour then."
Whale: "Can I have it?"

I give it to her and she starts ATTACHING IT TO HER BRA STRAP! I cannot possibly be making this up. At least 40 people saw her with a pink glowstick clipped 2 inches above her right breast. Whale belongs to the few who are cursed with the trinity of cardinal sins. She's, FAT, FLAT and UGLY.

Me: "Wah.. do you have to clip it there?!"

She goes off, then periodically comes back. Each time to compliment me on things from 'Good handshake' to 'you're a good dancer'. Her other friends stare on in bewilderment at her supernatural popularity. Well, we love keeping whales as pets. They make great afternoon entertainment.

Eugg and Reznor finally come. Ash starts getting drunk from playing 5-10 with HB and I'm distracted between toasting with the other girls and keeping a lookout for the Whale. Everytime I spot her I'll say to them,

Me: "There she blows!!"

Me: "Are you guys blind!? How can you NOT spot her?!"

Whale finally comes over to get our numbers. I point her to HB and walk away. I tell the guys, "There's enough of her to go round. Do not worry about not getting any. "

Me: "HB, I need to take a FULL body pic with her. This is important."

I've not seen the pictures yet, but when I do, I'll show you, if I'm feeling nice. She starts telling me horrible stuff like, 'hanging out together in future'. I ignore all that she is saying and stare at the ripples on her skin around the cheeks and neck as she talks. I can't remember who, but a couple of them start egging me on to kiss her. And what do I do when faced with juvenile peer pressure?

I give in.

I plant a peck on the great wide surface she calls a cheek. She is the happiest marine mammal in the world. Not everyone one is laughing about it.

Ash: "You are not kissing me tonight! I can't believe you did that!"

I start proclaiming loudly to the guys.

Me: "I just kissed a girl that is above the 80kg weight cap. I am king. You have not and you are not in my league."

Me: "I don't care what you guys think. I'm counting that one as 2 girls."

The Whale is huge, with miniature A-Cups. She's 2.5 times HB's size and her arms are packed with years of KFC drumstick weight lifting. You can turn around twice and you'll still be on her. I tried finding the next whale and then realised that NO ONE was anywhere near her league. I had caught my White Whale and everyone else now looked like they just came from a hunger strike.

Which brings me to the point about the picture. I hate it when people take up more photo space than me. I AM THE PHOTO WHORE.

In between HB FALLING on the ground laughing and being chatted up by Caucasian men. I see one fat male ass and suggest to her that she should hit on him. She obviously lacks my enthusiasm for pork chops and turns down the challenge.

Some guy points to me and goes,

Guy: "Hey, nice shuffle!"

I wave him off because he isn't fat enough to eat me whole. Whether it was the Whale going off resulting in the capacity slashing in half or the delayed effects of soberness, the night was turning out to be like any other night.

6 hrs from now, I'll be on my way to Desaru. I head home, take a dump and fall asleep while wiping my ass.

Post script: HB msgs me the next day.. verbatim,

HB: "dude send u the pics tonight k btw your whale wanna ask u out for coffee n I told her ok haha!"

Why Dates Should Be Silent

My name is Butterfly. I am an asshole, and I love silent romances.

Date's are always good when people talk less. If you've got brains from the discount section and you're not funny, shut up. It's simple really. I'd pre-empt you on this, if its the one good deed I'm cursed for eternity with. Look, if I greet your joke with a stare, get the hint and start picking up other skills like suicide. Life is better without you.

The recipe for this is simple. Add one part VERY attractive lady to your exisiting equation and you already have yourself one distraction from talking. Next you need the language barrier to stop you from effective communication. Nobody should ever need to talk on a date. I'll make it really easy so that the airheads that date me need only visual cues to react. If I snap my fingers it once, I'm asking you to follow my lead. Anything more, usually means I'm trying to figure something at the tip of my tongue.

To say that my week was a debaucherous affair, would be negating the impact that the people I've met, have on me. Yes, like all typical night out for me, alcohol is almost a neccessity and the company of a VERY hot girl or its plural, are carnal pleasantries I'm blessed with.

My appetite for alcohol is matched only by my concupiscence for hot bodies (girls only), meshed in a provocative dance. I usually like it when they dedicate their ass grinding to me, because I'm the only person worth doing so.

Truth be told, I've found an ancedote. I can count you the things I like about her, rhapsodize about cosmic and astrological alignments, palaver you with tales of her smile, and yet nothing will befittingly narrate my addiction. All you need to know is how I smiled.

The best thing about being in a cultural exchange relationship is that you can shut up for 3 hours straight on a date and no one feels awkward. All you have to do is smile, make stupid faces, randomly stick out your tongue and basically let your charm do the work. This is perfectly good for me since my aptitude for conversations are selectively merit by topicsm but anything that invovles me and you in the sack deserves a good amount of my time.

Silence is the best thing you can offer me if you have neither the verbal competence to engage me or your jokes are recycled from the Peanuts comic strip. Either way, I'm actually perfectly comfortable with you just hugging me, PROVIDED you are the hottest girl in my general 10 yard vicinity. You need to constantly reassure me that I made the right choice.

I've just dated one other girl who loves talking. Which is the polar opposite of this other girl. The good thing about this is that she's interesting and I'm attracted to her, physically. She dresses well, has her hair pinned up just the way I like and she reminds me ALOT of Flora Chan. It's a personal preference but I absolutely the actress.

Whatever intellectual stimulation I lack with the First girl in mention, is made up for through language and her absolutely hot piece of ass. Not that I hate dates to be an avenue for verbal communication, but sometimes people should just shut up and kiss me.

YOU ARE FREE TO DISAGREE WITH ME, BUT YOU ARE WRONG

I'll tell you why date's should be silent,

1. When you talk less, you kiss more.

I have no interest in political issues and my knowledge of current affairs is limited to offers at the MacDonald's delievery set. Neither am I usually interested in your hobbies or interest, unless it's really interesting like stamp collecting or gardening. I love watching you talk only because of the way your lips move.

Kissing on first dates is strongly advised. Want to leave a strong impression? Kiss me. I'd be honest. It's probably going to be the only thing that I'll ever remember. All of us should kiss on the first date, that way I don't have to go into the second date to seperate the bad kissers from the good. You'll save me time and $6.90 for the Whooper meal I'm treating you to.

2. It's more romantic.

When you shut up, you give time for imagination. Do not spoil the moment unless you have something romantic to whisper to me. Things like 'fuck me' or 'I'm not wearing underwear' are some of the sweetest things you can say to me on a date. Other than that, I don't want you ruining my train of thoughts.

If your date talks too much, slap them. Do it repeatedly till you see formation of ulcers. Don't take chances if you think they are still capable of talking. They need to respect my notion of romance.

Look, just sit there and look pretty. You really deserve a spit or two if you try to talk and ruin everything with your foul abuse of the English language. How can anything be remotely romantic if you are yakking away about your great Mango sale buys to your inquisition of my love life?

3. I need time to focus.

There more pressing matters than conversational value. Things that are detrimental to relationships like boob cup size, facial flaws and flabby abs. When you shut up, I'm no longer obligated to maintain eye contact. This would mean your game plan might involve a different strategy. Push up bras are good tools to begin with.

Do you really think people pay attention to you talk when you have a plunging neckline?! Guys are shallow creatures. I know so. I'm a major at this. If you are boring, wear something REALLY low, or you'll never get more than 5 secs of my devotion. Alternatively, you can go date a butch, and miss out on all the cock action.

4. When you shut up, you say less stupid things

You can never imagine the kind of stupidity I've put up with. I've had girls point to flickering plane lights and wondered why stars moved. I've had girls tell me 'it's not about love.. it's the feeling you get'.

Say WHAT?

Save your Class 95 love quips for that potential MacDonald's boyfriend who's getting that long awaited promotion to cook french fries. If you belong to the foremention group, pray that you belong to the higher percentile of gorgeous people. Only when you have a pretty face and about a C cup, will you be excused for stupidity. That's because as they say, God is fair.

5. SHUT UP

Only 5 percent of the popluation should be given tongues. The rest are idiots. The perfect date starts with a kiss, then deteriorates into great sex and finally you ending it with ,

"You're an asshole".

Girl farts, tries to deny it

I want to set the record straight that I have nothing against farting. It's a natural process, your body behaves in trying to disgrace you publicly, voluntarily or otherwise. It's one thing to laugh it off, but when you try to hide it, you will be laughed at.

I went on a date the other day. Yes, even for me, it's not always straight to the bedroom. I've known this girl for a while now and she makes good company. Especially when I want someone to tell me endlessly about their life. Its always good to know that my life is better than yours.

We get into the lift up to the carpark right off a conversation on Thai food. In a 10 second pause while we stand staring at the digital interface, I distinctly hear an ass whistle. It was one of those that you'll think to go off like a careless whisper but it turns out to be Gun's & Roses live in Tokyo instead.

I turn to look at her and in the FASTEST silence breaking 'I must hide my embarassment', she throws up a completely random,

She: "Today is Thursday issit?"

Giggling alittle, I then proceed to correct the obvious.

Me: "No sweetheart, it's Friday."
She: "Oh issit?"

Either farting makes people dumber or farting is generally followed by poor acting. Which ever the lesser of two evils is, I'm heading for a full blown laugh. I look away then furtively scratch my nose, taking a whiff or two.

Me: "Did you just fart?"

I end the sentence half breaking into a giggle.

She: "No."

In a poker game, her look was that of a trying bluff. Except for this, she was bluffing her hand for 4 aces while holding three cards. It's pretty obvious, even for 4 year old kids with lollipops stuck in their nose. I'll make this real simple.

Look. There's only she and me in the lift. I sure as hell didn't fart cos if I did, this story would be about how I soiled my pants. So if it ain't me, it had to be her, or Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick.

I start mildly convulsing in my giggle, like school girls over neo print discounts.

Me: "Ok.."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA

She: "I didn't!"

Me: "I know..."

HAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA

She starts laughing along with me.

She: "What.. haha what's... wrong?"

Com'on, if you fart just admit. People fart in my presence all the time. I had a girl fart while giving me heading and she actually said, "Excuse me" before she continued sucking away like no tomorrow.

Me: "YOU JUST FARTED!"

She: "NO I DIDN'T.. REALLY!"

Yes, next you'll tell me Barbie's are brunettes.

Rounding up the Lifestory

Since you absolutely love me and I love me, I shall award this commonality with the continuation of my lifestory.

For those of you who haven't been reading enough of the past stories, you really need to drop your Quantum Physics text and pay attention to my stories. I'm the remedy to your social detachment. Reading my blog gets you a better chance of getting laid than reading how atomic particles react. My rule is simple. Any read without the mention of alcohol or sex in 5 lines is classified under bullshit, unless it's Harry Potter.

My first year in JC was absolutely horrible. Naturally, the only outcome to this was flunking the finals and retaining. Ironically, this turned out to be the BEST life altering experience EVER.

The lecturers did a great job in putting us down. I don’t blame them. The only thing that beats kicking someone when they’re down, is doing it daily in front of 300 students. That’s the education system for you. Just lovely.

I did Economics and for an entire year, and I never understood the laws of demand. I didn’t see why prices should rise with demand when everything should be given to me free, with seconds. I also didn’t understand why Convent girls had problems keeping their legs together when they sat.

Retaining in JC for the first couple months was a recurring nightmare. Only your moronic peers can make this worse.

They: “How come you sneak into the year 1 lectures?”

I didn't know if I should tell them it was the free tic-tacs they were giving out that made the yr 1 lectures so much better. I thought it was pretty obvious, but apparently JC's are filled with the same idiots in kindergarten.

Despite JC being a kaleidoscope of flunking test and sleeping in lectures, it was also the dawning of my initiation into adulthood. My First Kiss.

I was a late bloomer. I was Lionel Richie at a 100m race, the last off the blocks. I had my first date and we did what every other moronic 17yr olds do in 1998. Take Neo-Prints as a means to comemorate a date. Nothing beats paying $6 for stickers, best if they come with Care Bears. Eventually, I unwittingly became the third party and I did what mature men my age would do. Throw tantrums at the bus stop.

1 year later, I ended up dedicating my life to pleasing one girl. Along this time, I won several awards like “Best BoyFriend of the month” and “Chauffer of the Year”. The result of this was a shrinking social circle. I had been so focused on one piece of ass that I gave up the whole Playboy mansion.

For the next 5 years, I constantly spewed horrible four letter words like, "Love", "Dear" and "Baby". Towards the last year, these became empty brackets that I used for getting her off my back. It became one VERY viable option to shut her up and postpone that dreaded, "I think you don't love me anymore" verbal diarrhea. It buys about a 2 day window period, before she'll wise up and irritate me again.

In between that, we broke up once, for two months and I wasted no time in bathing myself in the river of sin. I hooked up with two girls, one of them is mentioned in the fake boobs story. Had my first one night stand and briefly engaged in an 'incestuous' affair . Oh, you'll love this won't you.. The things I do to make Lucifer smile..

Once that 5 years imprisonment ended, I voluntarily served a 5 months probabtion for abstinence as a means to anesthetize my throbbing conscience. That was until I found out that she was dating someone 3 months later and I resumed affectionately addressing her as 'that bitch' and wasted no time in chalking up my body count.

Whether I meliorated my chances for finding a suitable partner by playing the fields is debatable. I attempted to palliate all my misdemeanour with the stand that while all relationships with me are usually emotional suicide, the consensual party is usually fully aware of my contractual attention and affection.

Spare me your moral castigation. I am your one guilty indulgence, unless it's that chocolate fudge cake. If you are (and you should be) a avid reader of my stories, you'll know a good part of the people I've dated or hooked up with. And if you have a good mind, you'll shower me sparingly with a dose of sympathy for the sheer amount of fuck ups I've encountered. You should love me.

My army life is of no interest to you, all you need know is that I was from a classified unit trained in chemical warfare. And also two other things, I was a half marathon runner for my unit and I probably could do more chin-ups with an 18 kg load then you could with just a pair of shorts. I was famed beneath the horizontal bars and was dubbed the 'chin up machine'.

If any of my men who's been through my training can tell you, it's DON'T fuck with me. I once made them do 100 chinups in sets of 10. None of them could hold a spoon for lunch after that. Just so that you don't think I'm an asshole, my unit works in such.. whatever we make our men do, we have to do it equally or in excess.

The University years were my personal favourite. I got to party every other night, babe watch in the Arts canteen and still be able to pass my exams, albeit marginally. Not like I cared much, I was never made for books. I don't care if my grades sucked, I made it into Uni with an A level score of B C C which is my greatest acedemic achievement.

My only concern was to look pretty in school. I had a final CAP of 2.8 but if you factor in the amount of alcohol consumed and the no. of girls I've hooked up with, I should be presented with First Class Honors. Yes, I'm also aware that I was very prominent in school because of my hair. And one reason why I'm actually only letting my blog circulate recently is because I'm out of there. Hence, my friends will continue to enjoy their share of annoymity.

In NUS, I've met more idiots than my entire schooling history combined. I got picked on sometimes by tutors because of my hair and they loved using me as example for deviancy. Whatever. I still did enough to make one young female tutor like me enough to give me insanely high grades for absolute trash work. My one regret was not bedding her.

Other than that, I hated most of the PRC students and wished the girls had the same calibre as the street-walkers at Geylang. These Chinese exchange students looked like they came out of a Communist refugee camp and haven't been properly introduced to the term 'personal grooming'.

The good thing was that they knew how to operate the flush, but girls with frayed eyebrows and moustache need to be sent to the gallows. Don't get me wrong, I've nothing personal against them, except for them not shaving their armpits (but its a cultural thing). I've dated PRCs before and I think they are great.. in bed. I'll reserve comments for character, since my communication with them is limited and they like me because I'm pretty and they think I'm rich.

I live largely in a superficial reality. My existence is validated only by my intemperance for alcohol, tattoos and subsequent blowjobs on toilet bowls from vomitting. I'm being defined by people who judge me because of my ailing attention span for girl, which is the only thing that is deteriorating faster than my liver. While your definition means nothing to me, your affection does. Better so if it's express with free booze or sex.

I've hooked up with almost every kind of women that is listed in the Woodbridge Institute of Mental Health Escapee list. Maybe one of them in that tally was a man. Well because shit happens and we can never be too sure but its too late for mind fucks. I greatly require people now to show me paper identification. We have to protect yourselves from the greatest enemy that is lurking in society, ESTROGEN injections.

The one depression in my life was being arrested for drunk driving. I've wrote about this so go read if you haven't. The consequence to this is taking public transport and realising how much life sucks without a car. I eventually woke up deciding to leave this place and booked a ticket to Australia. My friends thought I was mad to leave during school term. Best Decision Ever.

I came back for my exams and got an F for an essay I submitted earlier. Like all students who pride their work, I went to beg for moderation of grades. I got rejected, by that fuck ass of a scholar tutor. Only naturally so because he was gay and I had yet to offer my virginal ass for auction at Happy.

I graduated with mixed feelings, mostly due to the reluctance to have my hair cut. I'm now only half as pretty as I was before. I'm no longer as affected since most prefer the way I look now because I look more boyish than pretty. The only thing I miss is the amount of attention I draw when I had long hair.

I'm currently planning suicide because my work environment sucks. My colleagues hold a daily forum on baby milk powder and diapers. I slit my wrist constantly while taking a dump in the toilet because smelling my shit while dying is more pleasurable then hearing their joke of an English language.

They say things like,

"Consificate" : Con-si-fi-cate

Do you even know what's that? It's confiscate. You think it's hilarious, wait till you hear her say it twice in a sentence, 5 times an hour.

"Procheat" : pro-cheat

This one's simple. It's proceed. Raise your hands if you got this right. You are obviously smarter than me cos I had to 'huh' her 3 times before I realised what she was trying to say. Then I ran off to the toilet laughing. I don't know what's better. Laughing to death or just killing her.

That's me.