Love is.. solved by Butterfly

I’ve come to learn that ‘love’ is a very subjective and malleable bracket that not many of us understand yet more often than not whole-heartedly (albeit foolishly) immerse ourselves in.

Well you see, I love dogs, but I have a dark desire to kick Chihuahuas, which really are the bastard offsprings when an inebriated dog accidentally fucked a rat. I love Tiramisu, but it’s awfully sinful. I love tattoos, but the process is a bitch.

My compendium of contradictions on love is well capable to qualify for a novel. You should know by now if you’ve actually lived life fulfilling enough (mIRC chatting not included), that love is a make believe, just like Sesame Street, the Boogeyman, dengue fever and AIDS.

I’ve in my state of abeyance come up with an equation through countless lived experiences.

If,

Love = Understanding + Commitment + Patience

Hence,

Love – Understanding = Commitment + Patience

Since if there is ‘Understanding’, there isn’t a need for ‘Patience’, we can omit the two like two double negatives. Which leaves,

Love = Commitment (Edit: Pls see below)

I then realized that if I re-scrambled the letters, it actually says “Liv Come Moment”. Is love really entirely about Liv Tyler’s moment of climax? Since this was too sexually charged and I constantly remind myself that love isn’t just about the Sunday Morning blowjobs, I decided to look deeper into this.

Then I had an epiphany, a rude awakening of sorts. I realized that if I removed the letters ‘ O V E M E N' and added “B U S H” I get the denomination of what love is fundament on.

“BULLSHIT”

Co-incidence? Or is mankind too busy buying flowers, baking cookies and making out at multi-storey carparks to even discover this? Da Vinci must have been leaving us tons of clues to discover this but we’ve been too cropped up with two of humanity’s greater adversities….

Contraceptives and Cholesterol.

When is Love really Love and when is it.. a ‘Like’. This is beyond my comprehension and the value of this debate excites me as much as watching the National Day Rally. It’s important but I don’t really give a fuck unless they have strippers during the interlude.

What I do know is that ‘Love’, no matter how sweet and impermanent it can be is awfully tedious when it ends. Love is an invalid bracket if you don’t juxtapose it with other words like, “crying”, “nagging”, "shouting", "throwing things at a person", “after-morning pills” and “suicide”.

Happy ever afters are only for Disneyland, wake up people! If love to you is an endless summer, your prince stealing you off into the sunset, then you need to stay in Florida. Yes, and I’m sure your prince rides a horse and he’s bronzed tanned, incredibly chiseled and he’s so well hung, you don’t know if it’s him or his horse fucking you. Or maybe you like it both.

Love is a lived experience. We only know it when we lose it. Or when we desperately cling on and coerce ourselves into believing we have it. The guys tell me I don’t understand love because I’m not scarred by it… Correction. I know love. It was when my mum said,

“I bought the Honda you wanted”.

I was so in love with it I refused to watch porn for a week. Now that, is sacrifice. So does this mean,

Love = Sacrifice

Hence, as with all simplification formulas I’ve learnt in secondary school, I take out the common factors,

Vowels ( LV ) = SCRFC
= Nonsense

I conclude again, that love is senseless.. You can disagree with my formula, but you are wrong.

This awakening has also brought about a mild reflection of my life and how miserable I must have made some of the girls feel. My refusal to dish compliments, my abstinence to exclusive dating, my nonchalance to acknowledge the things they’ve done for me. Everything that has happened only fuels to spoil me.

I’ve never really appreciated having lunch sent to my home or office or to have occasional surprise presents. Which explains why I am now prepared to take retribution or less harshly, the consequences of my actions, like a swimmer swimming with lead bars. I might drown, but someone’s probably going to rescue me.

Edit: LB informs me that my equation isn't tangent to correct mathematical preachings. The equation should have been simplified to,

Love = Commitment - (1)

Since understanding and patience are the same and that one was already a negative and hence we can't cancel it in entirety. Which leaves a nominal value of 1. LB believes this value of yet undetermined characteristic is the penis. Cos',

Love = Commitment + Sex

which also means,

Love - Sex = Commitment ( + alot of porn, lubricant and a China hooker)

Since this is very much cohesive to Butterfly's school of thought. I shall agree. So if you are still thinking of keeping your virginity till marriage (you have no idea know how much you're missing out), it's time to go by some candles, lotsa condoms and a whip if you really must.

The Car and Tissue Incident

Despite qualifying for the Mensa society and having an IQ higher than 85% of the general population, I’ve come to realize that I’m pretty much an idiot, 90% of the time. When I’m drunk, which is probably 40% of the time, I’m pretty much only smart enough to tell vodka from martini and I think everything is a good idea, picking up whales included.

It’s a matter of statistics. It eventually sums up idiocy.

Last Friday, I chalked up one more impressive feat. Now I just need to continuously keep this up and I can qualify for the next Olympics as a proud member of the Singapore Spastics Association.

While waiting in the car queue outside MoS, I decided to reward my patience and perfume myself with a Dunhill Frost. For those not readily familiar with this scent, it’s the same cigarette laced breath u get from Marlboro.

Just as I’m about done, a police car pulls up behind me. Well, it was actually behind me the whole time, I just failed to realize a white car with a damn beacon is the sole property of the police force.

And I became faced with the greatest dilemma in the history of mankind since Saddam decided invading Kuwait was a good idea. Women face such crisis after every shower when they have to pick their clothes. Do I throw the butt out the window or do I find a way to extinguish it inside? I weigh my options,

1. Throw the butt out..

Cops get out of car to knock on my door. I step out, try to bribe them, they reject and I get my ass beat to the ground. If I show enough contempt, they might tazer my ass. On top of that, I get a $500 fine and I have to show up in court.

2. Extinguish the butt…

I have no ashtray, nothing that seemed (at that time) remotely useful in snuffing out my fag and I was going to risk dangerous particles like loose ash and cigarette smoke to be lingering in my car.

I went immediately for option 1 since I’m adverse to violence and confrontations. I quickly pulled out a piece of tissue, folded it then attempted to extinguish the cigarette against it. I intermittently switched between twisting the butt against it and quick brushes, careful enough to prevent the tissue from catching fire. I finally wrapped the extinguished butt in the tissue and left it on the door handle. I am a genius.

2 mins on into my phone conversation with wildflower, I started smelling something. Almost like tiramisu.. I ignored the smell, attributing it to be from the linger aroma of the cigarette.
Then from the corner of my eye, I saw smoke coming out from the….. FUCKING HELL!!! I must have secretly picked option 3..

3. Burn the car

My tissue was burning up very quickly and in my frantic disposition to arrest the fiasco, I took another tissue to wrap around the one which was burning up. I slowly recalled my physics lessons. Fire needs oxygen to burn, hence covering the flame takes out oxygen and hence the fire.

The outer tissue starts to burn as well....

I start wondering if I got my brains at the discount section. I start blowing the tissue, which only sets it burning fast. In a desperate attempt to save my car, I contemplated throwing the tissue out the car. I’m sure the cops would be really happy about it.

Ashes start flying and falls to my lap. I spit onto the tissue to stop it from burning. Finally, I am back to being the genius I am. I look down to see the ash burning a hole on my pants. FUCK!

I might have broken the World Record for ‘Most number of expletives used in a sentence when alone’. If I counted the number of times I shouted “fuck”, “chee bye” and “oh shit!”, I would have enough words to write the 8th book of Harry Potter.

The End of Months

My penchant for the monthly dating is over. It started from an inspiration (which I’d have to credit Charlize Theron for that matter ), proceeded to give me many great memories and it ended on a realization. It sparked and moulded the man you have come to know as, Butterfly.

I’ve been terribly exhausted of late, which is a fair excuse on why I haven’t been religiously entertainin you with new posts. I’m drained, mentally, physically and if I can shamelessly add, possibly emotionally. I’d spare you the intricate delectables, but my life is in need of immediate re-structuring. Badly.

I’ve come to acknowledge that with my lifestyle, comes the aftermath of retribution and the scorn of reputation. I’m more infamous than I had imagined and my reputation is going to smell almost as bad as a Puerto Rican prostitute with yeast infection.

The irony of it is that people outside this lifestyle want in and I want out. Oh, it’s been a ride, you can trust me on that when I tell you that what you’ve read here is only a portion of the un-imaginable (and very much censored version) that has happened to me.

I’ve had my share. Alcohol? Had tons of it. One day you can milk my liver and you’d probably have enough to start a liquor store. Hook ups? I’ve lost the figure somewhere after it outstripped my age. Radomn pick ups, splurged on by older women, re-bound guy, a jealous girlfriend’s tool for revenge. Ohh.. I’ve had ‘em all.

But there isn’t memory in them that I would like to keep.

The ‘Miss Month’s’

Rules: For one month I’d date one person exclusively. This is the only instance where monogamy to me isn’t a vulgar word. And for one month, I’d try to find the reason to fall in love. We’d be everything a couple is, only that it ends in a month.

Why a month? As they say, “it’s long enough to have an impact and short enough to stay out of trouble”.

Reason: Blame it on my incapability to find love normally like all the regular Joes’. Blame it on my idealism of an altered chemistry, of falling in love beautifully and unconventionally.
It’s a sorry excuse to find love you’d say. Or an excuse to just get laid. But I can assure you it isn’t. I’d get laid more if I’m didn’t have a Miss Month.

Why would people even play this shit with me? More than you can imagine. Cos’ having me for a month is the best way to beat me in my own game. I’m actually pretty sweet if you know me. We all win. Well, that’s if WE both fall in love.

It’s the only point in time I have stability. The only time I believe effort isn’t just about unhooking their bra. And that commitment isn’t just about the promise of bring her to climax five times a night.

And WHY am I leaving all this behind?

Cos’ I’ve found a reason to stop.

Don’t you worry, my inactivity isn’t a precursor for the demise of this blog. I still have tons of good read for you on a more regular interval.

The One About the Climax

I'm not one to doubt the efficacious value of an audible climax. Sex is always so much better when you have two people audibly contributing, or one person if she's really good, she just dumbfounds you entirely...

I love women who are noisy in bed. ONLY, and only if it is erotically pleasing.

Then there is the one, that dumbfounds you.. the wrong way.

She was like any normal girl. Young, eager and a wide arsenal of moans that would make porn stars blush. She was so good, she could do the voice over if they ever needed to dub it in Mandarin.

But she obviously saved her best for the climax..

"AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH !!!!!"

It was so loud, it scared me and I lost the erection immediately. I didn't know if I was hurting her or if she was having a baby, but it also sounded like a legitimate audition for Jurassic Park.

I've heard lots of screams before and there's almost an ecstatic undertone in everyone of them. For this one, I thought the cops were going to kick the door down and arrest me for illegally slaugthering a horse.

The Roof and Shoe Story

It’s amazing how there’s a silver lining for even the most embarrassing moments you unwittingly subject yourselves to.

It was a Sunday night unlike any other. Cool light breezes that really didn’t give me any reason to be heavily panting from 10mins of soccer running. It’s a kind of physical state of being that has taken me years of inactivity and a lot of binge drinking to attain. Nothing is by accident.

KR is back from back from New York on holiday and late evening soccer was but a guised opportunity to sit down and debate over which is the best way to wipe your ass after a dump in between regaled tales of TheCaptain's misadventures.

We decided to head home for a shower before re-grouping for dinner and so we drove. 10 mins of alternating breaks and mild acceleration and we finally stopped at the intersection of Bartley Road and Upper Serangoon Road, when a car with 3 guys and one very cute girl pulled up next to me, frantically waving and pointing at my car.

It's the situation where you as the driver take a mild panic pill and wonder if it's a flat tyre, failed break lights, an open trunk or you've been dragging a Bangla worker down the road for the last 50 metres. Puzzled and driven largely by the sheer euphoria of having a cute girl wave frantically at me, I quickly wound down my window.

Girl: "You have a shoe on top of your car!"
Me: "A WHAT?!"
Girl: "A SHOE!!"

This was greeted with a pandemonia of laughter erupting between LB, KR, Totti and me. My next immediate reaction was hurling abuses at my friends.

Me: "WHO THE FUCK LEFT HIS FUCKING SHOE ON TOP OF MY CAR!"

We start bursting out into laughter again as KR slides his hand up to retrieve the shoes. It's the kind where we're laughing off the embarassment given the fact that I had driven that distance with s pair of street soccer shoes plastered on my roof. This shoe's got grip that's for sure.

LB nudges me,

LB: "Dude, I think the girl wants to talk to you.."

I turned to see her mouth something at me behind her glass. I wound down my window again and signalled for her to do the same. I was half expecting her to ask "are you Butterfly.." or something remotely close to my identity.

Me: "What?"
Girl: "Are you straight or are you AJ.."

I swear that was what I heard.

Me: "Am I straight or am I what?"

I inched my self closer out the window.

Girl: "Are you straight or are you a gay?"

It's sort of an unorthodox pickup if you ask me. We're stopped infront of the traffic light waiting for it to turn green and she's interested to know my sexual orientation? Girls are indeed weird.

Me: "Straight.."

She giggled. I re-assess our situation. I have two guys in the back seat. One of them is topless. We're giggling like bitches at a shoe being left on top of the car. I lack any sense of manliness. Yep, I believe we actually qualify for the gay society. All we need are leather pants and I'd safely say we've got ourselves a new career option.

Me: "Why? Is that the gay mobile?" [pointing to their car]
She: "YES!!"

And her car ruptures into secondary school giggles.

Me: "I'm fucking heading over.."
LB: "Wah, you just got picked up at a traffic light..."

I winked at her, she smiled and she waved to me again... and her asshole of a jealous male driver friend sped off. I don't know about you but we have a new method of picking up chicks on the roads now.

All you need is a pair of good gripping sneakers and you'd find your wife at the next traffic light junction.

P.S : If you happened to be that girl, we all think you're cute and we want to thank you for rescuing KR's shoe. We're thanking only you.