The Worst Christmas

So much for kissing under mistletoes, basking in the spirit of giving and unwrapping presents under the Christmas tree, all I had for Christmas was a $300 tab for breaking a mirror and a facial disfigurement.

My afternoon church service was a welcomed redemption for me, but it didn’t mean that I kept my mouth in check and I ended up leaving them speechless.

ChurchGuy: “Hi, Merry Christmas. Thanks for coming.”
Me: “Yea..Merry Christmas.”
ChurchGuy: “Have we met before? You look every familiar..”
Me: “In porno movies maybe...”

He stared wide eye at me while Faith broke out into a laugh then proceeded to cover my mouth with the service booklet.

He didn't appreciate my joke much. Fuck him.

ChurchGirl: “Hi, do you want to attended the children’s carnival later?” [hands me stack of coupons]

Me: “Can I buy drinks with this?”
ChurchGirl: “Yep, of cos you can.”
Me: “Is there Vodka?”
ChurchGirl: [stares at me] “Erm, nope…”
Me: “Then no thanks.”

One year ago when I went to Dek’s annual Christmas and Birthdy party at his place, I was nearing my final days in pedaling gas. One year on, I’m anticipating the 29th like a 40 yr old virgin at the whore-house. The wait had been so long that my excitement over it has significantly mellowed.

Everything else about the party remained exactly how I remembered it to be. Generously laced with food worthy of making the Iron Chefs smile and wine bottles lined up like bowling pins waiting to be emptied.

The primary enticement in going down to meet CokeWhore and the others at MoS, was the enticement of a private room. We are talking about large plush sofas seats, private dance floor and endless streams of alcohol. My decision to welcome Christmas at a club was blossoming into a fairytale.

Then it changed. Drastically.

One moment I’m sipping from my glass of amaretto and nibbling on cherry stalks, the next I’m clutching my left temporal region in pain from an accidental projectile. There has never been a better way to illustrate to you how much Christmas hates me, than a good ole’ shot to the head with a cube of ice.

I lifted my hands off and my friend started screaming something about blood. I flipped my palm over to see it scarlet soaked from the fingers trickling down to the open palm. I had been bukkaked with stupidity and childish wargames. The consequence of which, left me bloodied, looking like I came off a losing battle with an eyebrow tweezer.

As I sat there while they switched between applying pressure to the wound and cleaning my face with wet tissues, only one thought crept in.

Is my shirt stained?

It didn’t matter that the impact was an inch away from my eyes and I was narrowly left with living my life out playing the harmonica at Wisma underpass. Neither did the possibility of having a scar dawn upon me instantaneously.

And once the initial blood flood had seemingly ceased, I turned to the only efficacious means of numbing I recognize, alcohol. So much for my worries that this Christmas eve would be a regurgitation of the prosaic. I now have more than I bargained for.

Everyone started pouring me with discounted consolations soon after as I sat there pouting over my misfortune.

“Never mind lah, scars make you look more manly..”

I respond to most of that with,

Me: “Fuck you. Which part of me looks anything remotely manly?”

It seems that I’m destined for memorable Christmas’. From getting slapped last year to getting iced this time round, I’m actually looking forward to getting myself pregnant next year. All this, my crimson Christmas, capped off by having to pay $300 for a broken mirror.

The only thing that threatened to explode this into ‘The Worst Christmas Ever’ was my cab driver who told me he was very sleepy and that he nearly dozed off at the wheel. If there was any one line that worked more effectively than caffeine, this had to be it. This immediately kept me at the edge of the seat repeatedly trying to engage him in conversation.

Me: “Uncle, don’t fall asleep ah, I’ve already lost a lot of blood today, I can’t take another accident.”

He didn’t think I was very funny. Fuck him.

Cabbie: “What happened to you? Your face is bleeding!”
Me: “Got hit by ice…”
Cabbie: “Ice?! How come can cut you? Glass issit? Why? Got into a fight ah?”

And suddenly I realized how pussy the circumstances leading to my accidental disfigurement sounded. Right, getting iced while nibbling cherries sounded real manly. I might have just as well gotten a leg cramp from watching Days Of Our Lives.

Me: “Ermm.. ya.”

Yes! Back to being a man.

Butterfly Does Selective Hearing

I appreciate you guys sending me emails, especially the ones chastising my lifestyle. It's a good reason for me to laugh at how myopic and blind to changes in our societal structures and mentality you really are. You are still living in an institution lag where you believe life should be about smelling flowers and clubbing is for the wild and amoralist.

While I generally do not wish to post your emails, this one is pretty amusing, yet subtly spot on.
And I'll highlight what selective hearing is..

Verbatim,

"Hi Butterfly..

Jus tot I'll drop u an email to say HI. So 'HI!'

I've been following ur blog since last year when one of my friend sent me a link to your blog. I immediately recognise u from the hair. Ur quite a prominent figure in school and tho I don't think ur that cute, ur actually eye candy for a few people I know. It's the hair I think, so pls don't get too swell headed. = )

I'm not writng this cos I'm interested in you or anything but solely as a fan of ur writng. U hv a quite a flair for writng and it's a hilarious read. Quite addictive to be honest and one of the more interesting local blogs that I've read. Ur quite an interesting character altho I believe that ur not as bad as u like to portray urself as. Hv some love for urself! Initially I was quite offended by some of ur post but after reading most of ur posts, I realised ur subtly making fun of urself as well tho many might not realize. I like hw u write everythng so matter of factly and ur honesty abt stuff and I agree with u on some of the things u wrote abt people, esp the one abt people who cant dance.

What I really wanna say is that, I have this strange feeling that ur doing what u do as a front. I don't knw u personally so I shan't comment on yr reason for living yr life so frivilously. I'm curious abt the real u. Who u really are when ur not living up to ur reputation and what made u this way. I'm sure yr readers wanna knw this too right?"


Ok. Read the highlighted portions only now and that's how your email should have been. Yes it's twisted, but read only the good stuff people, that's why you're reading me.

EDIT: I've put up my X'mas wish list, here.

MRT Kicks Ass

The only reason taking the MRT hasn’t degenerated into a mass social suicide brought about by sweaty rush hour crowds and kiasu aunties plastering themselves at the door, is because it’s an absolute thrill to watch people get their asses kicked.

Wait, since when has the MRT become a circus of carnage, you ask? I’d share with you a social fact. More people get bruised taking the train than they do at Mr Miyagi’s dojo. Have you not seen the ass whooping the MRT has been handing out to idiots who attempt to rush in at the ‘door closing’ buzzer?

I’ve seen it all, people tripping over gaps, having their skirts clamped between doors or sometimes when I’m really lucky, people get crushed between doors and they delay my train for 7 seconds.

Just the other day, the door closed in on a guy’s elbow, nudged his arm laterally across his chest to punch the girl standing next to him, square in the forehead. I started giggling so badly I only needed an antenna to market myself as a vibrating handphone.

The moment was priceless. Her stunned expression mingled with exasperation and mild embarrassment as she brushed her fringe across her forehead, then pretended as if none of that shit ever happened. The moment was just too much for me to contain. I bit my lips, struggled against an inappropriate outburst, and then started counting sheep. The MRT kicked serious ass that day.

This now dethrones my previous favourite MRT story of the tripping Whale. The only thing that can possibly beat this is punching a Teletubby.

Commuter behaviour is closely pegged to temporal influence. People are dumbest at rush hours, which for those still packing lunch boxes, taking the school bus and ignorant to white collar tribulations, it’s between 5-7pm.

At this time, people tend to misjudge possibilities. They believe in running to squeeze into trains even from 20m out with the doors half closed and sardine packing 100 people into a single carriage is a minor discomfort they will sacrifice just to get home 3 mins earlier.

The greatest motivator to run, other than towards a pair of spread legs or an open bar (buffet table if you’re a Whale), is the door-closing siren. Never has there been a more apt system with a positive effect in simultaneously hastening the pace of the masses. It’s one of the rare times you’ll see Whales breaking out into short jogs or taking on the stairs two steps at a go. Asthma attacks, breaking wind and torrential floods of perspiration usually follow.

Is it really worth it?

You plunge yourself between the doors, throwing everything you have to prevent the doors from shutting. Your arms, legs, head and pride. All these, just to save 3 mins and now you have to stand through an entire ride in embarrassment, with me sniggering at you.

Euphoria pt 2 –The Lap Dance Story

Resuming clubbing duties back home was going to be a hard switch, especially when you juxtapose it with a night of hard trance and other sinful indulgences. Yet, Above and Beyond was the best thing on the clubbing calendar this week and missing it would be equally sinful.

Last night, it was back to licking shot glasses and chewing on cocoa seeds. The familiar taste of that vodka redbull sliding down my throat like or pursing my lips to savour every drop of the amaretto. It was ecstasy liquefied and for my liver’s disposal.

Dek brought Ning along and we quickly inducted her into our drinking rituals.

1. No sipping. Everything should be skulled.
2. We drink at my pace.
3. If you stop at the 3rd drink, you WILL be laughed at, even if I think you’re hot.

CokeWhore’s propensity to fill the table with drinks once again pronounced itself with the first ground of drinks coming up to 2 jugs vodka redbull, 4 lychee martinis, 4 sambuca, 8 kamikazes and 8 illusions.

We went for another round of white wine, amarettos and screaming orgasms. In between a wager between Ning and me over getting the waiter to bring me a glass full of cherries went underway.

A minute later the waiter comes back with a glass. I erupted rapturously over winning the bet and proceeded to quickly pocket the winnings.

Waiter: “Sorry, but cannot get..”
Me: “What?! What are yew talkin' about?! Yew jus made me lose a bet!”

Turns out she was holding an ashtray.

Dek: “You guys are damn hiong, can you all drink slower?”
Me: “Wat chew tokin’ about?! This is only the appetizer..”

Ning’s friend Von joined us shortly after. Doll haired and pleasantly pretty, I shrieked when she told me she was 28. And this was to be the first of two shrieking..

I would love to say my night was highlighted by the group’s huge turn out. The small shuffling community meant that everyone becomes a familiar face and eventually assimilated into the group after awhile. But no…

Not even Ning’s amazing ability to pick up the shuffling basics at my first attempt to teach her was going to define my night, but one thing would..

The Lap Dance Story..

As soon as Dek left and us doing a last round of martini bianco 7 up, we headed straight for the dance floor.

Ning: “You want to go fishing is it?”
Me: “I can’t fish when there’s good music…”

And she left shortly for the women’s platform with her lightsticks..

Instantly, I caught this girl in conversation with her friend, pointing to me. Like everything else, I do not give much thought to it and I continued my 10 sec shuffling routine.

Then she starts waving me over to where she was seated on the stage.

She: “Can I get to know you?”

I looked at her, vaguely remembering her talking to Ning and Von and borrowing lightsticks from them earlier.

Me: “Aren’t you their friend?”

I pointed towards the girls.

She: “Is she your girlfriend?”
Me: “Nope..”
She: “So can I get to know you?”

This is perhaps my all time favourite pick up line because you lay everything on the table. It used to be, “I like your hair” or similar variations to it, all mostly in compliments to my hair or the way I dance.

Yet, there was so much rhetorical value in a pick up line as such. Do people even say no? I’ve been rude before, but largely to people who deserve it. I’ve blown girls off before, only because they say stupid things to me like, “can you buy me a drink” when they look more like they need a liposuction.

Then I went off to pee and when I got back to standing at the steps, I felt someone press up against me from behind. I turned to see that same girl.

She: “How old are you?”
Me: “25.. yew?”
She: “32.”

I stared right back at her, checking her eyes for crows feet and forehead for wrinkles. Then I shrieked…

Me: “32?!?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?”
She: “Nope, I’m 32.”
Me: “What are you? Some SKII ad?

Apparently she’s a Singapore Girl (what a great way to fly), the second of the night after Von. Not that I have issue with details, but anyone above 30 still has adverse effects on my desire to take the introduction back to my bedroom.

Girl: “Can I buy you a drink?”

I love her already. Anyone one who offers to buy me a drink is fine by me. It also means that she’s mature enough to know that ‘guys should pay’ is a bullshitting manifesto created by sour old spinsters to ruin every girls chances of meeting great people like me.

Then she suggested chilling at a table which eventually turns out to be a great excuse to give me my long deserved lap dance. She inched closer till her breath fell heavily on my face, then she whispers to me..

Girl: “I’m on E…”

And then she begun her routine, gyrating against my inner thighs, rubbing her crotch against my lap and then finally pulling my hand under her skirt. Then it went slightly awry.

Me: “Is that a tattoo?”

That was ALL I said to before she LIFTED up her skirt in full view of EVERYONE at the bar. One tattoo at the pelvic bone, sliced in half by her red G-Strings and one huge one on the lower back.

Me: “Woah.. That was a good show for everyone..”

The last time anyone ever did something like this for me at a club, the person turned out to be a post op transsexual. I now only need to verify if she's psychotic.

If there was an award for the shortest skirt, she would have won it even if she wore it below her knees. It was so ridiculously short, I was almost certain she was wearing some shorts underneath.

Girl: “You don’t mind that I’m 32?”
Me: “I don’t care if you’re 32 or 42, It’s no difference to me.. I’m not marrying you to begin with..”
Girl: “Maybe…”
Me: “No maybes.. I won’t be.”

Then she tried sneaking her hands into my pants. Had I not had the psychotic Kay tried to force her way in last time round, I’d have foolishly allowed lust to screw my judgement and coax me into allowing her to get her way.

Me: “No no.. that’s ONLY for the bedroom..”

I pulled her hand away and she responded with a pout and went right back to licking me whilst I giggled to myself while sipping the vodka she got me.

5 mins later, where most guys would have sealed the deal and brought her back for a deserving night of hedonistic sex, I found myself suddenly being introduced to one of her guy friends as ‘my cousin’.

I started giggling and I distinctively heard her mutter, “ooh shit…” before following with an Emmy award deserving script-writing win with,

Girl: “This is my cousin. I have to send him out…”

Say what?

Seconds ago I’d have cajoled a marriage proposal from her and now I’m the gardener hiding in the cupboard.

I shook his hand, glanced at her before sniggering to myself over the whole absurdity of this debacle. I had gone from potential fuck partner to first cousins in seconds.

This must be how it feels like to be a mistress. It felt good. Vodka never tasted so good when I have to pay for it.

Euphoria Pt 1

The bait of a rave party is something I’m almost certain to fall at, given that you’d have to travel out of Singapore to be decently educated to rave culture and once you’ve been inducted to it, the immortality of memories would never allow you to give the same fervor to the local scene.

Hence, you see me occasionally zombified at petty Mambo Nights or Hip Hop sets which are made for decency. Remember, I start and get my kicks at an entry level deluded for moral straightjackets. Clubbing with me takes a lot of liberal acceptance and a liver willing to take punishment. You can leave your dogmatic sideshow for others.

When we decide to head up to JB for the HardSequence event, we had a divided agenda. CokeWhore and Muthu for the pure addiction to raving (and it’s a good excuse to shuffle), Pappy and Dek for the possibility of induced euphoria and me, for the cheap DVDs.

CokeWhore and Muthu had already left for JB in the late evening and by 9, they were rushing me to get my ass down to the hotel. Pappy and I met at Dek’s place and by 10 he was weaving through traffic and cutting queues at the Woodlands Checkpoint.

Pappy: “Nothing is going to stop me from getting there..”

I’ve never seen Pappy more motivated. Even the lack of hotel car parks would not dent his enthusiasm and we ended up parking at the hotel taxi stand. A couple drinks at the room and we dutifully made our entrance to the club which was thankfully just next to the hotel.

And once we got there, that nostalgic presentiment returned. The throbbing bass reverberating against my chest and the crowd of rave fanatics. It was a teasing precursor to ignite my misdemeanor. It was KL all over again and given the right twitch, it could feel like Australia..

We wasted no time. CW and Muthu went straight for a shuffle warm up, whilst Pappy and Dek embarked on what was increasingly looking like a lost cause, finding a ‘hook up’.

The worse thing about the place was that NO ONE seemed to be able to speak decent English. Which made my conversations with everyone from the ravers next to me to the KTV girls lounging on the sofas restricted to simple introductory pleasantries.

Girl: “I’m not from here…”
Me: “Ohh? Where are you from?”
Girl: “KL.”
Me: ".... Right...."

Look. Malaysia is Malaysia IS Malaysia. When I ask you where you’re from, you just tell me Malaysia and spare me the toll booth divides. It makes No difference to me if you’re from Sarawak or KL if neither one allows you to hold a decent conversation in English.

Yet, the lack of an English aptitude turns out to be a blessing when the guys end up mistaking a cop for the Tamborine man and the word ‘Ecstasy’ got lost in translation.

It seems that the law has finally caught up in Malaysia and my impression of drug dispensing machines in toilets and club corners are mere utopian fantasies which now, no longer exist. Save for a couple of girls who were shaking their heads so vigourously, they looked like they were challenging the spinning disco ball.

Then if this is so, would this no longer qualify as a rave?

This was beginning to pale too much in comparison with Australia. And even if I’ve yet to taste it from the Shuffle capital of the World, Melbourne, but Adelaide itself gave me quite a delightful insight.

The free distribution of pills, the sharing of bottles and the euphoric anthems. This was to remain in my memory, for now, the trip up here was fast spiraling down to mediocrity. Neither any of the guys had any luck, even with our variation of lingo from CW’s “do you have pills?” to the blatant ‘D’ word, nothing it seemed was falling for us.

The only saving grace was the music and the ‘like-mindness’ of everyone else. While the Melbourne Shuffle is a diasporic sideshow in local clubs where we’re driven to open spaces often away from the main dance area, it’s the main staple diet there. The main floor is meant only for shuffling. Call it a haven if you may..

By 1.11am, we finally made a successful contact. Wait, credit goes me. I found them. And then it went from ecstatic to pandemonium to absolutely hilarious.

10mins down, I was feeling weightless. I had lost sensation in my legs and everything begun spinning around me. I plunge myself against the chair, clutching the edge of the table tightly as I fixated my gaze on Muthu’s feet shuffling intermittently. I was feeling every vibration on the floor as if I was barefooted, walking on subwoofers.

Pappy was constantly going,

“I am a pancake on the ceiling… I am flat as a pancake..”

Then, I felt it coming. The nausea from my accidental gulp of beer and that dry bitterness still stuck in my throat from that first line. I arduously laboured across to the toilet. Walking was fast becoming impossible especially when the floors seemed to be moving.

If I saw myself walking, I’d have laughed my pants off and shit myself just to stop me from laughing. I was like a flamingo high on vodka, taking big exaggerating steps, kicking out clumsily and stomping my feet hard on the ground from the misjudgment in distance.

And then the familiar bending over to spew the night’s undigested. Leeches. Everything out of me was black lumps that clung to the sides of the urinal like leeches.

My second stint bowing over the toilet bowl sobered me. I was back to walking decently without dependence on the railings and tables, or the occasional stranger that I’d support myself with.

When I got back, Dek was drinking off the ice bucket it was water bottle. Everything had stopped spinning and I was clear headed enough to reply anyone who asked me, “are you ok?” with a obligatory smile.

Dek and Pappy were done for the night. An over enthusiastic swipe and underestimation of the good was to be their undoing. Paranoia was setting in. Dek became increasingly worried that Pappy spewing greenish puke would get them arrested. And so they left, marking their exist with mucus and vomit along the way back with Pappy still going..

“I’m flat as a pancake..”

I managed to sober up in time to enjoy the closing 30mins of the set. Sober enough to shuffle for about 10secs continuously.

The aftermath,

When we got back, Dek and Pappy were fast asleep. Pappy also chalked up an unnecessary tab from the mini bar for mineral water.

Me: “What the fuck?! We bought so many drinks! We had one huge bottle of mineral water in the room!”
Dek: “That’s what I told him, but he got paranoid.”
Me: “Paranoid of what?”
Pappy: “Cos the bottle was already open.. haha”

Butterfly Goes ZoukOut

When it comes to ZoukOut, I hold some reservations to what is considered the biggest calendar party event. For what is a local rip-off from Full Moon Parties and marketed heavily globally, I usually feel sorry for unsuspecting tourists who fly here specially to get disappointed.

Yet, I was wrong. Which I’m hardly ever.

Several things reminded me why ZoukOut remains THE premier party, the Disneyland of all clubbing affairs.

It's fantasy page ripped out of every hot-blooded normal males wet dream; Beach, babes, bikinis, boobs, butts and booze. There was never a better alphabet than the fundamentals of B. I wet myself thinking about it. And then, there’s every cyber nerd’s wet dream; free LAN gaming.

1. Babes

Somehow I’m beginning to realize the hidden wonders of Singapore. Perhaps I’ve been lost in trance anthems, intemperance with alcohol and addictions to shuffling that I’ve been suffering from a bout of myopia against pretty faces in clubs. I’m slowing coming out of that and back to appreciating and acknowledging where credit is due.

2. Bikinis

Minimum criteria to wear a bikini top is a B cup. If you’re a C, you will be ogled at. I’d drool if it’s a D, but only because of alcohol. Anything that has cleavage deserves an obligatory smile.

3. Boobs

I saw tits. Yes someone flashed me and I’m counting it even if it was a tranny.

4. Booze

$6 a pop isn’t basement bargain when you take into account the absolute fuck of a diluted concoction it is. You’d probably get high off inhaling whiffs of absinthe faster.

I’m going to take my time on this and be as detailed as my ailing attention span allows.

Getting there…

You know it’s a Singaporean held event when the event starts at 8 and the carparks are filled at 6. The other half of the ZoukOut population came here in canoes rented off St. John’s.

By the time LB and I got there, the carparks nearest the venue were all filled and we had to settle for the Gateway carpark which was so far, I was pretty sure we’ll be at Siloso beach in time for the New Year Party.

Some conflict in communication and general bad advice from me saw us deciding to walk there. We passed the Musical Fountains and LB took a piss into the fountain.

11.00pm: We start off on foot, absolutely sure walking to Siloso is the smartest decision all night.

11.05pm: LB thinks walking is a bad idea. I tell him “it’s just up ahead..”

11.08pm: Apparently, I’m wrong. LB suggest heading back to get the car and have it shifted to Tanjong Beach. I tell him,

Me: “No one walks half way and turns back.. just keep going.”

11.10pm: We check the map. Siloso is about two palm lengths away. Singapore is about half a palm away. I reassure LB that walking on is better than heading back.

11.15pm: LB starts yelling at me. I have stitches on my side and I’m out of breath. I ignore him.

By the time we arrived, the carnal visual fest was well enough to erase any retention of negativity. The bikini tops, the beach shorts… throw in bunny ears and you have Hefner certifying this.

A call from CokeWhore and we made a quick stop to the hotel room, tanking up on Vodkas and menthols. By the time we got back down, it was closing in on 1am but the crowd was still streaming in like it’s a Mango sale.

Getting Drinks…

I can’t remember how many drinks we bought but the first wave was 30 cups. Subsequently we cheated on the ticketing. We’d buy in stacks of tens and I’d hide a couple tickets then complain to them about short-changing us.

I can’t help being cheap and disgraceful.

The BAT incident…

When I went over to get Dunhill’s at the British Tobacco booth, I had my picture unglamorously snapped.

Me: “Did you just take a picture of me?!”
Guy: “Ermm.. ya.”
Me: “You gotta delete that.. my mum will not be happy…”

They broke out laughing and requested I posed once more with the pack. Then the video guy came in,

Video: “Pose with the cigarettes.”
Me: “Dun want lah…*pose and pout*”
Video: “Erm.. with the cigratte pack…”

This was an absolute gimmick worthy shot, given that ironically, I had a T-Shirt with the prints “Role Model” printed laterally across. This was a perfect foil against the conventional but as with everything creative and outrageous, it’ll be decently proxied and sensitized and never to be seen.

Photo taking..

By the time I was decently intoxicated, I was running around yelling at people to have their pictures taken with us. I didn’t ask or request for their photo presence, I demanded.
The only thing that exacerbated my peremptory demands into blunt rudeness was the constant injection of juices into my blander.

I applaud my streak at times to get away with the crap that comes out of me. I attribute it to mordant humor and a charming misdemeanor.

Me: “BUTT CHEEKS!! COME HERE!! TAKE PICTURE!”

This guy had on some white trunks and a towel tucked between his ass which was weighing the trunks down to mid level and a nauseous over-exposure of butt cheeks.
And despite me absolutely yelling and calling him on my on derogatory terms, he still came back to offer me drinks.

I love myself. Obviously men love me too.

I have no clue to how many strangers we ended up posing with, but CokeWhore estimates it to ‘half the pictures’.

It came to a point where they absolutely discouraged me against going up to hot girls for pictures and wanted me instead, to work my charm on gays, bad dressers and anyone who was physically dysfunctional.

Couple others dropped by. Huixx and Jules came by for a while. Red joined us once her friends had left and Ash popped by, muttered some vulgarities at me over removing her cap and disappeared shortly.

And that was it, the last of what I can vaguely remember. Dancing against sunrise, fighting against fatigue and exfoliating my feet with sand.

Butterfly Bed Ridden

If retribution is hitting back at me through muscle aches, blood laced phlegm and swollen tonsils, it’s going a great job in keeping me down. I was out for the count, laid to rest on my back with a tempestuous desire to party and a feet equally willing to taste rhythm and yet only one impediment lay before me and a night of promised debauchery; Paralysis.

Perhaps.. the consequences of my actions have finally caught up with me. No, there is nothing sexual in my topic and the only thing that rode me all week end was a plague called, 'Alcohol-less'.

It came swift and without prior warning, much like pregnancy and alopecia. Then a sharp pain that quickly radiated down from the left neck to the lower back. I fell straight to the bed, panting and winching in pain as my mum spared me a glance from her Word Racer.

Mum: “Why? Not going out ah?”

I glanced to the general vicinity on my right, nothing within reach to throw at her. I continued winching in pain. I’ve never felt worse, not even tattooing breached a realm anywhere remotely close to this.

I couldn’t move, neither could I feel anything to my left. Is this a stoke?

Me: “I’M IN FUCKING ALOT OF PAIN!!!”

I inched myself closer to the pillow, hoping to prop it against my back, deep panting and cursing along the way. The only non-expletives to come out of me seemed to be my isochronal grunts and pants.

Me: “fucking shit *pant* *grunt* chee bye *pant* *grunt*!!!”

In-between I told her to go get me morphine. She thought I was kidding.

Me: “Get…. me pain-killers at least.. or a knife…”

She finally came back with pain-killers from my last medication for my ‘fractured’ ankle.

She: “Come, sit up and take medicine..”
Me: “Sit up!? Do I look like I’m taking a fitness test?! I can’t even move my head.. help me up..”

Then I lay there, hoping for a miracle drug. I glanced at the time. 11.30pm.. I can still make it to Zouk.

11.40pm: My mum comes in again and nags about finding a girlfriend again and something about having someone to look after me. I ignore her and contemplate biting my tongue.

11.42pm: She starts on the girlfriend nag again..

Mum: “I think it’s high time already. Stop fooling around and find a nice girl..”

I lost her after the word ‘nice’. It's subjective. I think girls with tattoos and thongs are nice but my mum yells horrible words like, 'blasphemous whore' and 'wanton harlot'.

11.45pm: I make my first attempt out of bed, which like the future of local soccer, ends in dismay failure. As soon as I attempt to arch my body, that now familiar pain goes right back at injecting me with some of the most vile sensations.

11.47pm: I contemplate peeing in bed.

12.12am: Did I pass out from the pain? The last thing I remembered were murals and Greek bath houses.

Mum: “You were snoring…”

So I'm wrong, I fell asleep. I continue to believe it was pain induced.

12.15am: I finally make my way to the bathroom. The pain still incessantly impaling my back and my arm too weak to lift the tap. Zouk now remains the distant Utopia the cradled Promised Land which is fast fleetingly becoming an embellished mirage.

And as I laid there, kept half awake by the rhythmic bouts pain, I started to reflect. Perhaps this malaise was going to do me good after all. One thing I realized while lying there was the irony I’ve circled my life with.

Despite how much I hate loneliness, the fear of having anyone falling in love with me is perpetually daunting. And so the story goes, keeping my world guarded with emotionless games, falling in love with gorgeous Prada prints and hitting the sack with Tommy Page crooning over the airwaves..

Everyone needs a shoulder to cry on… la la la la.. friend to depend on..

What a faggot. I make a secret wish for a stripping teletubbie and a transsexual midget riding it. Anything beats lying in bed on a Saturday night.

Mum: “Are you looking hard for one? What about Fire-Engine?”

Like how I tag people to calendar months, Mum associates them to the cars they drive.

Me: “Mummy, my back is killing me… girlfriends can wait. I might not last the night..”

The Laws of the Butterfly part 2

7. Gargling is a waste of time

Which ever Grandmother ever said gargling salt water helps coughing ought to be elbowed in the face, then punched in the groin.. twice.

I don’t care if you have water from the Dead sea in your mouth, your cough is not going to be cured just because you’re blowing bubbles. How is gargling supposed to help ameliorate my recovery?

There’s only one remedy to coughing. A quick jab to the throat, self-administered or external assistance. Sure, you’ll be gagging in pain, but at least you won’t be coughing. Best done with brass knuckles.

8. Never treat your date too nice

I’ve said this before. If you open the door for them today, they are going to expect you to wipe their ass tomorrow.

Never start out beyond your comfort level because guys tend to slack up periodically, usually in direct relation to a girls effort in dolling up. Rule of the thumb.

Make up, shorter skirts and more cleavage = more doors being opened (physically and metaphorically)

End the date with a handshake. If they were pretty interesting on the first date, you can give them a pat on the back as well. If they are drunk, you are allowed to cope a feel, ONLY if she’s hot. Say nice things like, “Hope to see you again. Dinner was nice, maybe you can pay next time.”

Chivalry is dead.

9. Say No to Communism

It’s simple. People who are clearly unequal, do not deserve equal chances. If you are fat, stupid or ugly, you will be laughed at. Call it hegemony, but it’s a known fact that good-looking people have power.

Yes tell me I’m superficial again and spare me the hate mail cos I have to frown through your bad writing. Writing entries these days is an elucubration since time is no longer a luxury I can afford.

Hail the Capitalist mantra since it’s a proven mechanic to social advancement. If you disagree with me on this, you’re not only wrong, but you must be fat or ugly. Seriously, do you think people really care how many A’s you had? Success is how many heads you turn in a club and paying your own drinks with your UOB Lady’s card.

The only jobs available to these people (FUS- fat, ugly, stupid) are mail room jobs. I don’t care if you have a Harvard Law degree, if you’re a Whale, you will start off with licking stamps in the mail room. Until you slim down will you then have your first case. If you go into the court room as a Whale, you are going to get charged for immoral public display of cellulite. If the judge knows what’s good for society, he’ll throw your ass in jail.

10. The Sex Laws

I whore myself to carnal pleasantries and my appetite for gratification is beyond the recall of logic. Yet, I have a pillar of rules we both need to abide by, or at least try to.

A. No Whales, men in disguises or unshaven armpits.
B. No vulgarities like, “love you”, “stop” or “pregnant”
C. No screaming unless I say it’s ok. The last thing I need is my mum charging in with pepper spray
D. No pseudo porn moaning and no calling my name. My mandarin name especially. I will lose the erection faster than a midget can touch his toes.
E. If anyone knocks at my door at 4am, you are climbing out the window.
F. Sleeping with you doesn’t mean I’m sending you home.
G. Do not ask me why the red light on my webcam is flashing and pointed straight at you.
H. If I take longer than 4 secs to undo the bra, help me out or risk buying a new one.
I. With reference to the above, if the hook is in-front, pre-empt me.
J. No talking mid way. Especially on politics.
K. No commenting about my tattoos.
L. No giggling. The last time someone did that, she turned out to be a mother.
M. Name calling is subject to approval. I will always address you as “Eh”.
N. No crying. If sex was marvelous, a kind donation on the way out will do.
O. No tearing of condoms.
P. No strangling. I only need to try snuff once. If you pull a stunt like that, I will bodyslam your ass to oblivion.
Q. No jealous boyfriends allowed. Unless you’re lesbian..


11. Food sharing

It’s ok to pick off someone else’s plate, ONLY if you have something for them to pick off in return. We call it quid pro quo. If you have nothing to offer and you're constantly picking off 3 or 4 platters, it’s called a Sponge Buffet. Keep this up and one day we'll be lacing your food with rat poison just to watch a live convulsion.

12. Courtesy distance

There is an unwritten rule on courtesy distance when it comes to the urinals at the gents. The same goes for empty seats on the trains or buses. You dmight not realise, but you're an active participant on this, if you're normal. For instance,

1 2 3 4 5

The numbers represent urinals. When there is no one, a male generally takes up the corners 1 or 5. For exhibitionists, homosexuals and males with confidently large penises, urinal 3 is prime property. When the next person comes in, it’s social courtesy to stand at least 2 urinals away.

If I’m at 1 and you come in and stand at 2 when every other urinal is empty, you’re gay. If you move to 5, you’re homophobic. Life is easy with dichotomy.

The Laws of the Butterfly part 1

Not many people appreciate the unspoken social laws which often at times of emotional distress, offer us catharsis or loopholes around otherwise sensitive inter-personal relationships. Call me the personification of mischief and appreciate this education.

So, instead of doing a google, I’m here to spell it all out for you. You can disagree, but you are wrong.

1. Whales pay double

If you are a cashier, just bill them the mandatory obese fee. If you are a door bitch, make them pay twice the cover. But seriously, are you sure you’d want them in your club to begin with? Being fat doesn’t equate to drinking more and on the contrary they drink less cos drinking more equates to peeing more, and walking constantly leads to a higher chances of getting a cardiac arrest.

2. Pregnancy is a STD

Your girlfriend gets pregnant, you are in real shit.

You get pregnant, you are in deep shit.

Either way, someone’s going to get their ass whooped by an angry parent. Sometimes both if you’re lucky.

Pregnancy is a social disjuncture. You have to abstain from alcohol, sex, partying and before you know it, you’re reading Reader’s Digest and sticking earphones to your tummy, feeding Mozart crap to your kid. Continue this and he’ll grow up a faggot. I’m sure your kid will love you for it.

3. When ‘cheating’ isn’t cheating.

Not many people are clear on when or what actually constitutes cheating on your partner. I’d make this clear so you’d never have to ask idiotic moralistic friends for advise, EVER.

A. Distance

If your partner is 500km apart from you, you are entitled to one guilty indulgent and one scandalous romp. Since your one guilty pleasure should always be this blog, you are left with one good night in the sack with that perfect stranger. If they’re good, you can make it two nights.

Fidelity can be measured in distance. Do not let conscience stop you from doing what you want, neither should you let the physical distance between you and your partner affect you.

Do remember, relationship status’ are invalid brackets if that person is 500km away. Which would mean if you partner is in Kuala Lumpur, you’d probably have to walk to Sentosa to become legitimately single.

B. Revenge

If your partner cheated on you first and you’re re-paying the favour, you’re home safe. Most of you know this, but what you DON’T know is that this rule is only applicable if the law of Distance is in effect.

Anyone who sleeps around as a motive for revenge has obvious issues with mentality. Sleeping around should only be done for pleasure, money and STDs.

C. Alcohol

Infidelity or the spectrum of it ranging from kissing to sex is excused under the heavy influence of alcohol. ONLY if you are a girl. This should be obvious enough. Guys don’t fuck drunk.

It’s a loophole in social norms and expected behaviour. You kiss someone by mistake, blame it on alcohol. I used to kiss random people when I was drunk last year and I never had to take anything more than a napkin from them. Your sobriety to filter hotness is arrested by the juice, so just throw all caution to the wind..

Example,

Friend: “Babe, you kissed that guy last night!”

Read as….SLUT.

Now, bring in alcohol into the equation.

You: “I did? Oh my gosh.. I was so wasted last night.”
Friend: “Ohh.. poor thing.. how you feeling today?”

Read as….VIRGINAL VICTIM of alcohol.

D. Games

Only if it’s my game and with me as lead, I’d grant you impunity to the recoil of social judgment.

4. Etiquette at free flow parties

There are basic etiquettes we have to abide by. Call it derivatives from the laws of Johnny Walker or cultural inversion. We need a new compendium of social mores.

A. Anything free deserves at least 6 glasses of your time

Even against the disgust of bartenders, have you and your coterie plunge yourselves shamelessly at the bar. You are Singaporean, we’re all born shamelessly cheapskate.

B. Binge drinking is the ONLY way to drink

C. Do not waste time on picking up people.

Free flows generally has a limited time span or whilst stocks last, which ever is faster. The only words you should be uttering should be synonymous with alcohol, like “whiskey”, “vodka” and “toilet”.

5. Picking up people

Shameless self-introductory speeches and compliments should not be limited to the male population. I always appreciate a generous dose of pro-active women who throw compliments at me. I’m a slut, that much I know.

6. If you can’t dance, don’t.

I’ve illustrated it here.

To be continued…