Back to Alcohol

From what it seems, I’m heading back to my addiction to the juices. If the path to liver failure is littered with free flow parties, product launches, trance events, wedding dinners and avid blog fans buying you drinks, then the damnation of the liver is a small price to pay.

I started my rekindled affair with the juices on Tuesday at a wedding dinner at Marriotts by tearing through the red wine after every course. By the time the fish dish came along, the three elderly folks at my table were staring wide eyed at me gulping done the wine.

OldMan: “Wow young man, you can really drink.. How many have you had?”
Me: “I think four glasses?”
Colleague: “No dude, you’re at the sixth glass… We’ve been counting.”

The Math:

8 Glasses of dyed red crap they tried to pass off as wine. I’d only use this shit to marinate my steak cos any bacteria is going to die tasting this crap. All this in an hour.

The After-Math:

Me: “What wine is this?”
Waiter: “Red wine sir.”
Me: “No shit… is this Australian or French..?”
Waiter: “No sir, it’s our hotel wine.”

Me: “…..Right… Just keep it filled.”

Wednesday

Reznor and I headed down to Home Club for a trance event. Mid week indulgence of a rave semblance is exactly what rat race executives need. It’s a welcome from throwing pickles on my windows and watching it slide. The thumping bass echoing in the silent lobby of the Riverwalk was the perfect interjection from the mundane I so badly needed.

By the time we got there, the whole group was already comfortably plunged on the sofa with a couple jugs ahead. This was the same night that I got to hear RollerGirl’s wicked suicide story..

Friday

Huixx and I headed down for the Stuff Party at Zouk. Two words made this a worthy trip to head out early despite a possibility of fatigue burning me out early before the night is matured.

Free.Flow

Huixx: “We’ll go grab some drinks first then we’ll go join my friend at wine bar.”

This was an easy enough game plan. Grab drinks, say hi to some friends, then go back out to join this poor guy who’s so madly in love with Huixx, he willingly waited outside for us. What an idiot, but that’s what makes Huixx cool. She has idiots tagging her like I have psychos on my heels.

On the way in, we grabbed a vodka each. By the time she was telling me about her FHM calender shoot, I was already into my fourth.

Huixx: “Wah.. you can really drink. You want mine? I’m not feeling too good.”

I’m not sure how you guys take your juices, but at free flows, the right way is to skull. If you sip, I will smack your till your lips get big enough to rim the glass.

By the time we were ready to leave Zouk, I had snuck back twice into Zouk for 6 more glasses. Counting the 2 glasses of amaretto I had at Wine Bar, I took the tally up to 13 glasses. That’s discounting the beer the others kept forcing me to drink.

Note: The word “Force” is applied only to beer, water and commitments.

When we got to MoS, I already had a mouthful of spit that can start a campfire and I’m starting to learn that there isn’t a limit to drinking when it comes to partying with CokeWhore and RollerGirl.

2 hours later, I’m at the retro room singing all the lyrics wrongly with CW and by 5am, I was back to giving my toilet bowl a blowjob.

I had a picayune debacle with a bantam of a security guard at RollerGirl’s apartment. When she got off, she specifically gave me instructions to use the back gate to get out, but when I got there, the damn security guard REFUSED to let me out.

What is wrong with this? Has ANYONE been refused exit from an apartment?!

Guard: “Are you a resident here?”
Me: “No.. Can you life the barrier for me to go out?”
Guard: “No.”

No? NO? Who the fuck says no to people going out?! Aren’t you supposed to keep people out?! This made me absolutely hysterical. I was half drunk, in a cab with the meter running like it’s out of fashion and I was refused exit. Boy was I pissed.. so much that I swore I’d have beaten a Tele-Tubbie right back into heterosexuality if it popped up.

Me: “Uncle.. can you just life the barrier?”
Guard: “No. Only residents.”
Me: “I just want to get out. Just lift the damn barrier!”
Guard: “No.”
Me: “UNCLE!! What are you talking about?! I just want to get out! Lift the barrier!!!”

The whole debate went back and forth for about 3 mins with me close to hysterics, till the cabbie finally contributed three words to the argument.

“Chao.Chee.Bye!”

I stared at the cabbie.

Me: “Woa.. Uncle, relax leh…”


Saturday

Despite the fact that I was half drunk, my heading was spinning and I lacked the mandatory 13 hours of sleep, I amaze myself at my juxtaposition of a decadent lifestyle with my laudable discipline to turn up for work on time everyday.

Perhaps the greatest anticipation all week long was Armin Van Buuren at Zouk. Armani what? That makes you and at least 50% of the damn crowd squeezing with us at Zouk that night. Some of them looked like they were waiting for Brittney Spears.

There’s only one incident that I’m going to re-count, despite several pleasant ones. Like meeting this cute chick that shuffles and having one of the readers buy me a drink, but I’ll dub the following incident, “THE POWDER STORY”.

I’m not going to explain why we had powder on the floor to begin with. Anyway, the guys started rubbing up their soles with the powder till this bouncer came up to me.

Note: I was the furthest one from the crime scene.

Bouncer: [Tapping my shoulder] “Give it to me..”
Me: [Absolute bewilderment] “Err.. give what?”
Bouncer: “Don’t waste my time. Just give it to me.”
Me: “Give what?”

Bouncer gives his best stern look. That effect would have been better if he had been taller than me. I continue to eye his flared nostrils in bafflement.

Bouncer: “The powder.. don’t think I dunno..”
Me: “Huh? I don’t have it.”
Bouncer: “Don’t waste my time I tell you..”

And this is the one time you will EVER see me pissed and I said the following.. verbatim.

Me: “DO YOU FUCKING WANT TO SEARCH ME?”

Bouncer is pissed at my remarks and knows he can’t find shit on me so he does the next most macho stunt. He snaps his fingers and calls for a mop.

We spend the following min imitating him calling for a mop, which pisses him off more. He comes back to me,

Bouncer: “Don’t give me that look ok?!”
Me: “What look?”
Bouncer: “This is Zouk ok?!”
Me: “Ya.. I know that.”
Bouncer: “Don’t give me that look.”
Me: “Look. Do you want to search me?!”

As soon as he left, we went right back at laughing at him.

The Suicide Stories

It’s not the most glamourous of stories to tell and laughing despite the inherent humour or stupidity is disrespectful, but it’s a great past time to sit down and listen to how many idiots actually live in this world, who’s resolute cause to die far digest my reasons to live.

I cannot fathom; to not taste alcohol again, to not marry my Japanese bride and to not throw tic-tacs at Whales ever again. Life will be a somnambulistic walk with horror if I cannot live life with a cornucopia of vice. Wait, but if suicide gets you a free flow at bars in Hell, I’m slitting my wrist..

Why would anyone give up on life? Unless of cos, they are Fat and Ugly (and worse if you fucking lie about it). Your suicide is so much more pleasurable, for me. And that’s all that matters. You can disagree with me, but you are wrong.

Last week I was eavesdropping on my colleague's story-telling session which started off with, “you know when I was young and still living at Kallang…”. He lost me somewhere after ‘Kallang’ and he caught me again 3 mins later with,

“…19 year old girl jumped from 24th storey cos the 25th floor was locked.”

No shit Sherlock, I would never have figured that out. I’d have thought people would drop the idea if their maniacal suicide pledge met an unexpected bump in the form of a locked door.

His story blows, save for the fact that he had several high points in the form of bonus words like, “Pretty Eurasian girl” and “boyfriend left her..”. But I’ve heard and seen better ones..

The One That Failed.

I had this friend who attempted suicide by emptying a box of sleeping pills like it was popcorn chicken. She passed out, woke up hours later, still alive with her stomach feeling like a stab wound, called an ambulance to check herself into a hospital.

I laughed myself coarse thinking about her botched attempt, despite her verbose account of how she was handcuffed to the bed and faced with a suicide attempt charge.

Apparently, she never wanted to die. Her plan was to OD of valium, collapse just in time for her mum to find her ass on the kitchen floor and win some maternal sympathy points (I don't see how that's going to work. My mum will beat my ass down with a bar stool). The down side was getting the schedule all wrong and her mum’s ‘rescue’ never materialized.

The Rollerblade Story

This is the only one that tops anything I’ve heard pertaining to the notion of suicide. When CokeWhore told me this last night while Tiesto was blaring over the speakers at Home Club, I laughed so hard I choked on my own saliva and I spent the following 3 secs gagging.

Years ago, when RollerGirl broke up with her boyfriend, she became plagued with that same syndrome all heartbroken couples face, stupidity. She developed a inferiority complex over her appearance which finally exploded one fine day while rollerblading down East Coast park, triggered when this group of guys started laughing at her.

Guys: “HUMPTY DUMPTY!”

That was all it took to will her into the surrender of life. Her morbid abnegation of the pleasantries of living manifested by her one resolute will to end it…

By skating off the jetty…

The only thing topping this was landing knee deep in water.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I was pretty sure nothing was going to top this last night until RollerGirl came to correct CokeWhore on the exact details of the botched suicide.

RollerGirl: “They didn’t call me Humpty Dumpty… they said.. Tele-Tubbie”

RollerGirl: “And I didn’t skate off a jetty… I skated off the beach.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA


The LB Story

Couple years back, when LB and I was still adhering to our mandatory skirt chasing weekday nights, we met this girl at Devil’s Bar. Don’t roll your eyes at me bitch, it’s the only place that closes late on a weekday. For simplicity’s sake, I’ll call her Joan.

LB never really dated her but they met up a couple times for supper. One night, over a mahjong session, LB started receiving distress calls from her, asking him to meet up with her.

Me: “The girl just wants attention.. just ignore her.”

Somewhere between the hour, she started calling with explicit announcement of her planned suicide. Huixx and I continue to dissuade LB from abruptly ending the game just because someone wants to die.

2 hours later, the game ended and I had just dropped Huix back at her place.

LB: “Eh, I don’t feel right about this. Can we just make a trip down to her place?”
Me: “I’m fucking telling you.. if people wanna jump, they’ll just jump without telling. She’s just looking for attention.”

I parked the car and got out,

Me: “See?! What did I fucking tell you?! No one is going to jump at this fucking…”

Before I even finished, we saw the CD Red Rhino turning into the estate. Fuck.. could I be wrong?

We started walking briskly over to her block and somewhere along the line we must have walked through Alice’s keyhole cos we found ourselves on the set of Crime Watch. We had to be. There was already a fire engine in place, an ambulance, police cars and the perennial Heartland gossip parade. We just needed a helicopter and Sylvester Stallone abseiling and we’ll ourselves B-Grade box office flop.

Me: “You can’t be fucking serious.. Is that even her?”

From our peripheral boundary to the girl on the 8th floor parapet, I had to squint my eyes to even make out her figure. The only thing I remembered about Joan was her boobs. Period.

The weird thing about watching suicides is that suddenly everyone seems to know the person or have something to say about her. It’s a twisted case of social integration, but then again, death is always good at that. If I stood with the crowd long enough, I;d have known her lifestory.

Two things made me pretty sure there wasn’t going to be gore.

1. Girl threatening to jump from the 8th floor of a 10 plus storied HDB.
2. And girl clutching the guard rail like Jenna Jamesson to a meat sausage.

Half the time she had her back to us, so I was anticipating a double crescent back flip with a good knee tuck. Nothing.

Before LB even made it up to find her, she got dragged in by the cops. From where I was with the rest of the crowd, I could have sworn I heard audible disappointment.

Butterfly Meets Psycho Whale

There are two things I absofuckinglutely hate. Being lied to and whales. I don’t care if my retribution is around the corner, neither do I care if my post hurts that person further than how the whole debacle has affected her life. If you lie to me, you will be shamed.

For months now, I’ve gotten to know a particular blogger through my site. While her blog picture is NOTHING close to getting me remotely excited enough to click ‘enlarge’, the pictures she’s sent me, occasionally warrants a goodwill ‘Wow’.

From what she TELLS me, she’s apparently very tall, slim and she does part time photography. From what I see in the pictures she sent me, there’s nothing I’ll pick up on to dispute that.

The best part about it all is she’s my biggest fan when it comes to the absolute condemnation of Whales. Yes, it’s almost imperative that we spare no derogatory remarks. Leniency is applicable only when I say it is.

So when a person is this cool ( read as, good looking and agrees with my written work ), what could absolutely stop me from honoring her with a kiss, a hug or even a deserving fuck?

She lies.

Apart from her being potentially psychotic and corroboratively love starved, lying was the one that broke the camels back. I won’t reveal the whole debacle because the primary victim isn’t me, although I played the pivotal role which blew up the whole incident.

Shame on you for lying to me.

The Trinity of Evil, my afternoon bitch buddies, you two know who you are. Without you I would NEVER have realized how much this girl was lying about EVERYTHING else.

Not that I cared much since I’m anything but affected, but everything I’ve known about her could potentially be a lie. When CrimsonWolf and I compared pictures, I was in stitches knowing that the bitch was ripping someone else’s pictures and passing them off as her own.

Gawd, who the fuck does this!? Who the fuck sends pictures of other people, passing it off as them and attaches endless fairytales stories of how hot she is and how male models are hitting on her. Yawn.

You wanna hear a story, I’ll surmise u one.

Fucking Whale lies about pictures, gets caught and should now contemplate suicide if she knows what’s good for her. Look, I’ll say it again, if you have to fucking lie about your looks to impress me, you are crazy. I’m not even worth the effort. And if you lie to me, YOU WILL BE LAUGHED AT.

You can’t imagine how much detective work we’ve put in and how much I’ve had to control my giggles when talking to her just so that we could keep this our perfect afternoon gossip. Yes, I am a slut for gossips.

It’s amazing how she’s stupid enough to try to fool me, especially when she has quite a profile and we have overlaps in readership. The shit just hit you back square in the eye.

When I saw her REAL picture, I couldn’t believe I was stupid enough not to realize how much her blog pictures differed from the ones she sent me, until Spinnee reminded me that she did in fact point this out eons ago.

I can’t really remember how she looks like because taking a mental picture is potentially harmful. I remembered having to resize the picture because I thought the chubby cheek was a result of bad file decompression.

The only thing worst than being a Whale is a self-delusional Whale. If beating your cellulite back into shape with brass knuckles and nunchucks are legitimate greetings for Whales, I’d have rained fury on you like no tomorrow, then laughed at you fat ass while sipping a skinny latte.

Why the fuck would a normal whale NOT know she’s hideous? Why would any fucking whale with a huge pinky finger full of pride want to engage me in a Whale discourse and continuously support my ostracizing? Do you know what kind of an asshole I can be and that your sorry ass would be laughed at.?

Psycho has a face now. If anyone had a cache of emotional drama bullshit, she’ll be termed under the super-computer category. You cannot imagine the drama scripted conversations she’s laced my MSN with. For one, she told me MissSeptember affected her SO much, she needed to fuck a rebound guy to get over me.

HAHAHAHAHA....say what?

And all this despite NEVER meeting me before. It’s either I’m truly that talismanic enchanter or she’s been snorting one too many marbles up her nostrils. After the ensuing debacle, I picked the second guess.

HAHAHHAHAHA

I laughed so hard my appendix tore and I started peeing bile juices and shitting intestines. Well, you ALWAYS wanted me to write about you anyway, so here’s to the retroaction of bad publicity.

LEXUS CUP- Part-time Job Vacancy

Updated:

I need alot of people for the up-coming LEXUS CUP OPEN ( Golf event if you don't already know)

There will be ALOT of hot models from overseas.. but that's not what I need.

I need,

1. Guys & Girls (need to be pleasant looking).

2. Preferably 18 and above. Aunties do not apply..there's a MacDonalds in every neighbourhood.

3. Pay is $9 / hr (at least). Don't fucking roll your eyes at me.. I'm not the one writing the cheque. If I had my way.. I'll pay all of you $6.50.

It's a damn easy job.

Some of the lucky ones will get to meet the VIPS, but what is paramount are foreign models.
It's basic logistic work... helping out with crowd control and serving the golf stars, etc.

There is an interview next week. Either Tues or Thurs.

Interested or any inquiries (intelligent ones only), PLEASE email me at

thebutterflytales@hotmail.com

Leave your full name and contact no. and I'll get back to you on the details.

Look, instead of sitting you ass at home, get up and go do this. It's one way you can help me.

EDIT: Pls... send me emails with following.

1. Your full name
2. Contact no.
3. Gender - VERY IMPORTANT. I need more girls for this and I don't want to guess esp for Chinese names.

DO NOT EMAIL ME QUESTIONS LIKE "ARE YOU WORKING ALSO?"

UPDATES:

Thanks for the overwhelming emails (although some are are irrelevant). I now need FEMALES only. I'm asked to get 'pretty faces who would work for that kind of wage'.

1. PLS send me attached photos of yourself (guys also). No make-over shots. I need regualr pics of how u'd normally look. It doesn't need to passport pics cos hell... I know how we ALL look bad in them.

2. Thus far the girls who have sent in their pics are literate, cos they understand me when I said 'pleasant'. Anyway, I'm not doing the selection so it's not up to me to give the nod. Your pictures will be sent in and if selected you'd be called up for the interview at,

1100 Lower Delta Road #03-02 EPL building

The whole thing will stretch from 6th to the 20th, but the actual event is 15th to 18th DEC. No don't worry, you'll still be eligible for ZoukOut.. speaking of which, SOMEONE PLS give me a good rate on the tickets.

So pls.. SEND IN YOUR PICS. Full face pls, no sunnies. Those who have, I'll shortly get back to you.

Butterfly Gets Battered

‘A body scrub, steam bath and a massage’, tantalizing treat to pamper yourself after a hard day's work? NO. I’ve three words to sum it.

WORST. MASSAGE. EVER.

I’ve been through a 4 hour straight session of tattooing and yet this was a new measure on the displeasure spectrum. There was hardly a moment I felt relaxed or comfortable, except for that one time she stopped to presumably scratch her arm.

The Body Scrub.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I'm pretty sure the scrub isn’t supposed to be applied in rigorous lateral movements. The brusque introduction to salt scrubbing, the thermal heated bed and I realized I was being marinated. Throw some BBQ sauce on me and you'll have yourself a Tuesday evening potluck.

The Massage.

She probably worked at Bread Talk before. I don’t know if she was kneading dough or inflicting me with potential internal injuries. She could well have flipped me, cracked an egg and served me with fish curry.

Never had I felt the need to tense up every time someone ran their fist down my neck then now. There is a difference between a deep massage and downright battery. In an hour, she managed to land every Chuck Norris inspired blow to my back.

Knees, elbows, fist. All that she needed was to throw in a headbutt to complete her impressive combo.

My larynx was crushed when she pressed me face down against the bed and I spent the next 5 secs alternating between salivating and catching my breath. She quickly followed this up with two scapula breaking punches before tearing through my back with what felt like brass knuckles.

The finishing maneuver involved her KNEELING on my lower back while delivering Buddhist Palm worthy blows. There goes the kidney..

The Head Massage.

17yr old meth induced hair-salon Ah Lians would have done a better job. There wasn’t a single moment I’d wish for a balaclava more than now. She was rubbing my hair so furiously that I must have had enough static in me to pick up loose shreds of paper on the floor.

Pain is obviously the one marketing gimmick this spa encourages its masseuses to enforce. Never have I come out of a massage session feeling worse than I went in.

She: “How was it?”
Me: “Good… good.”
She: “If need more strength you can tell me.”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! How strong is this woman? She could have massaged a Porsche into a Proton if she needed to. Yes I lied, but no one tells a woman who just spent 1 hour destroying your vital organs that her massage sucks without getting their ass kicked. Honesty is not appreciated at spas.

12 hours later, I wake up feeling like I got hit by a bus.

Butterfly Does Photoshoot

The familiarity of it all.. the tilting of the neck, that false arching, the gaze. Only that this time, there was less demanding requests for me. No, there is nothing sexual in this, unless you count the buttons undone to my sternum as a tantalizing prologue for seduction..

There is nothing faintly sexual about this photoshoot, neither has there been anything sexually exciting for me this week. Yes, even Michael Jordan has off days. Unless of course, you count the web-cam with a bona fide porn star as one.

Yes, I’m a photo whore, that much I’ll admit, but I’ve never like photoshoots much. The constant instructions and cues to abide by, as well as directions I cannot comprehend make my appetite for the camera a little less palatable.

“Look through me with more passion..”

Say what?! Is this even humanly possible. I’d rather you tell me to kick a field goal with a leg brace.

My usual Saturday afternoons would be better well spent laughing with Spinnee and CrimsonWolf over the poor innocent life we’ve come to destroy (oh this is a VERY good story), but for this week I’ve devoted myself to the lenses.

Some excerpts from the interview. I had to moderate my answers and behave myself.

“What subjects did you excel in school?”

Me: “Truancy, sleeping and hooking up tutors.”

I’m lying about the first two, but I really excelled at the last. That was the ONLY way I managed to score an A for the exams.

“What can a girl do to turn you off.”

Me: “Wear Polka dots and dance horribly”

“So what can a girl do to get your attention.”

Me: “Other than stripping? The Melbourne Shuffle..”

Yes, I’m going to proliferate this fact of life. If you shuffle, you will instantly catch my attention. If you can strip while shuffling, I’m bringing buffalos and cows to your home as dowry.

The one bonus the shoot had was the fashion assistant, or at least I think she is. She was a pixie who’s one magic power was to iron my clothes and make me look good. She was a pretty little thing prancing on the couch to grab my stuff, standing on the sofa to adjust my collar and simply just looking cute.

The shoot wasn’t half as bad as the last shoot I had. I was given more freedom on how I wanted to stand and sit. Sucking in the calories is no longer an issue here. The only thing was that I didn’t know when the test shots ended and when the REAL shoot started and I was sulking in perpetuity until the editor said,

“You can smile you know..”

And like a ray of sunshine beeming at my new permission to smile, I let off some toothpaste commercial worthy shots... which they didn't like too much.

Now.. if only I can get those pics.

post-script: Next post... I'm dedicating this next one to this particular psycho whale.

Butterfly Interlude...

I need a sabbatical.

I’m planning on a trip to escape my ‘crass validation of existence’. I need to leave Singapore again to still my throbbing restlessness. My superficial gratification of life, one which some of you have come to envy, is taking its toll on me.

My drunk escapades, the accidental hook ups, the planned booty calls, the late night parties, the rave addiction, the serial dating, the sex games..

I need a refreshed sobriety on my cursed lifestyle. I need valium for my fervid engagement for excitement and novelty. My life in the last 2 years has been a treadmill to keep pace with my insatiable appetite for my convivial belief of life and these have gone beyond the recall of morality.

My jocular disposition is slowly eroding. My desires have far outstretched my capabilities to sustain.

My reluctance to share myself with anyone. My fear of commitment. My disdain for imposed expectations. My selfishness. All mere walls to echo my loneliness in a bevy of potential anchorage for love.

Yes, your silence in crowds, your emptiness in self-reflection. I’ve experience them all. I’m at a junction where pain is temporal, yes, but memories leave scars. I’ve lived with many ‘What If’s’ , far beyond what is healthy.

I’m going to chase the impossible again…

And you’ll have one more story to read..

Girl Pisses Butterfly Off.. Badly

There are certain things you should NEVER attempt to pitch to me if you are not hot. For one, I don’t care if you think you’re hot. You’re not, until I say you are.

She: “You have to prove yourself worthy to me..”

Guess what my reply to this was? Hands up if you said, “Go fuck yourself.”

Me: “Go fuck yourself. Who the fuck are you to tell me if I’m worthy?”

If you came up with a similar reply, you are getting the hang of things. All you need now is to learn to land one single quick blow to their larynx, just so that if the shock from your reply doesn’t dumbfound them, you know your fatal blow will.

Prove myself worthy? Do you even know who you have to be to even tell me that? Why don’t you prove yourself? Go buy yourself a stairway to Heaven, you’ll need it to be spared my wrath.

1. Do you drink?

Given my intemperance for the juices, my propensity to gulp and my insouciance for social norms, it’s only natural my date has to share a toast or two. Or alternatively, you can volunteer to pick up my tab.

My recent abstinence of this has left me a lassitude mass of a docile social product, one comparatively lacking that same vulgar fervor that made me so bewilderedly loved by you.

See what lack of alcohol does?

So, if you who abstains from alcohol or embrace it so disgracefully with uncontrollable drunkness, you are not worthy. I hate people who have no control over themselves when drunk or even tipsy. Girls should NEVER get drunk, I won’t give a fuck about you and I certainly will not entertain you.

2. Do you drive?

This will soon be an invalid bracket for me. Given that I have 2 more months of suspension to sit out before I can re-take my license, I’ll soon no longer need to subject myself to petty tête-à-tête with women who helm the wheels.

The only reason why my misery of not being about to drive is proxied or my compliance to leave the house at anomalous hours is because the girls I’ve been dating this year mostly drive.

Unless you can offer me something I can’t otherwise attain or possess (read as “driving license”), spare me your insolence. But just because you drive me around doesn’t give you priority over anything else. I owe you nothing. For that one person who thinks I have an obligation of companionship just because so, you can go fuck a cow.

Think of it as a Faustian Bargain. I surrender to trivial pleasantries, tenebrous compliments and quixiotical requests. I’d even agree that chocolate milk is fresh from an afro spotting cow just so that I get a ride up to my doorstep.

3. Can you shuffle?

Most girls look hot shuffling, with some exceptions of cos. Naturally, learning to shuffle or attempting to will gain you huge bonus points to redeem for kisses, hugs and pregnancy.


Seldom do I let anyone affect me, emotional blackmail or yeast infections, but this girl deserves a sample backlash of my contemptuous tongue. Here’s to re-evaluating your scuzzy self-worth,

“If you had brains it’ll make up for your lack of vital organs which comprise of breast.”

You know what pissed me off absolutely? She wanted me to date her (something which will NEVER cross my mind) and she’s telling me I’ve to prove myself?

I prove myself for NO ONE. Neither do I give a fuck about anyone except the hawker who threatens to add more chilli in my noodles. I’ve had to work less to bed hotter girls and smiled less to get a compliment. So…

Dear CelluliteAss,

What makes you worthy?

Achieving midget PR status without your heels? Being a Hobbit extra? Living in the Shire? Needing your bra cups for humps?

No, no.. I’ll tell you..

If you painted your zits black, you can be marketed as a chocolate chip cookie.