That Day With The Bottle

I no longer religiously document my regular clubbing escapades because every other night is a mimic of the weekend before. We party, we get drunk, I chalk up a hefty tab and when I hit the shops over the weekend, I can walk pass Paul Smith and think, ‘oh, I could have bought that’.

The last weekend was pretty much in tangent to my canonical proceedings; alcohol and women. We started at Butter Factory, which was as with every weekend, so packed with people that if you took a picture and posted it, it would qualify for a ‘Where’s Wally’ poster.

Beautiful people aside, the crowd itself can be quite deterring, especially when a room serviced by a very efficient air-conditioning system gets humid and it takes you so long to get to the toilet, that Cuba would have become a democratic state by the time you unzip your pants to pee.

And since this wasn’t Bangkok, it meant that I lose all privilege of being Singaporean and money cannot buy me a table for my bottle. I hate this country.

When we finally managed to get a table, the bottle took ages to come. And when it did, there weren’t any glasses. When that came, we had to wait for the ice. And when they finally got the ice flown in from Antarctica, there weren’t any mixers. People must really hate me over there.

The guys came back periodically to tell me about the crowd inside, but I was primarily fixated on my bottle, which I was pacing through pretty decently since I was constantly engaged in conversations that would always be interrupted at mid sentences by random toasts that always habitually ended with me skulling the glass.

Then it happened. The unthinkable.

I remembered coming back for a smoke with Denyse and by some cruel intervention of misfortune; she knocked over the drinks at the table. It was that reverberating echo and freeze frame of watching my bottle smashed onto the floor.

And I just stared myself silly as I watched my half filled bottle now lying in pieces on the ground. What do I do?

Do I recognise the clattering voice of fate and the evaporating scent of vodka as salvation? Do I take it as a divine intervention or perhaps a distress call from my liver that sent a quick text to God for help? Do I abandon the night and surrender to fatigue? Am I allowed to now throw tantrums?

I did nothing, all through her stream of apologies and offer to get me another bottle. I was caught in a mosaic frame of absolute ‘pissness ‘ and quiet capitulation with the demise of my vodka bottle as my term of surrender.

I stood up and suggested a change of venue because I could no longer sit at the table and breathe the air of evaporating alcohol and knew very well that, that would have more deservingly been appreciated if it was consumed by me.

Guy: “What’s at Zouk?”
Me: “Something you cannot find at 7-11 at this time. Alcohol and hot women. Together.”

And that was enough to convince them.

When we finally got to Zouk, that whole bottle episode was behind me and I celebrated that with two jagerbombs and some random glasses of champagne. Then more came, like the rivers of Babylon. It was shot after shot, and when that came to a cease fire, there was always a jug being stuffed to my face.

And when that ended, we threw up the insomniac’s favourite route by suggesting we continued the party at Living Room. And this was a conversation I distinctively remembered because I was talking so much crap, you’d have wondered if I was drinking Newater allnight long.

This was one of the girl’s friend who was complaining about having to wake up early for a wedding.

He: “You know what is the part I hate most about the wedding? The part where the brothers have to bargain for entry and the girls demand like $8,000.”

Me: “This is so simple. What you do is later when you get back, go to some mail order bride website and download their pictures. When you get to the house tomorrow and those girls tell you $8,000, you take out those pictures and you tell them fuckers that for $8,000, you can get like 4 of them to lick your ass everyday once before meals.

$8,000… That’s fucking ridiculous. You can get the whole fucking village, the girl and her unborn cousins to marry your friend. I’m serious man. Go prepared so that they know you mean business.”

When we got to Living Room, the crowd was pretty much the regular composite of drunks and whores. And by whores, I literally mean prostitutes who are plastered to the bar stools and will take any eye contact you make with them, legitimate reasons to approach you.

Slowly the guys all succumbed to fatigue and prior arrangements to fuck. I on the other hand, was already well tanked and beyond my capabilities to sustain an erection, so I decided to entirely embrace alcohol instead.

When it closed and the guys deliberated over how they were going to split the cabs, I started making eye contact with a girl at the taxi queue. I knew they were all going to board the same taxi and I was going to be stranded so I had to calculate my next move.

As soon as they got into the cab and drove off, I started walking towards her. I knew she was a working girl because even before I could wink impishly at her, she asked me if I would like to fuck her. And the last time someone was so forthcoming about getting me in bed, that person had a surgical vagina. Life is never always so good, even for the Butterfly.

Me: “Even if you are Miss Thailand, fucking you now is almost impossible.”
She: “I not Thailand. I from Vietnam.”
Me: “Wow. That didn’t make a difference. AT ALL.”
She: “So you want to sleep with me?”
Me: “If I said I would love to because I think you are pretty. Would you let me cut the queue?”

It was 6.30 in the morning, I was very inebriated, sleepy and exhausted but still capable of lying. I amaze myself all the time. And for the record, she actually gave up her cab to me. I love being me.

The Wax Story

There are many benefits to having a boyzilian wax like hygiene, easier to wipe your ass after a dump, and it makes your dick look bigger. If porn stars are doing it, then it can’t be wrong.

When Muthu asked if I wanted a free boyzilian wax session, I paused at that thought and took a full day before I took up the offer. There were after all, several factors that eclipsed the all enticing ‘Free’ and I was weighing out the ascribed attributes of the offer.

For one, this was a session with a trainee – who is a guy and will be handling my penis, and overlooked by a female trainer. This meant that I was going to lie bottomless on the bed, leg arched like I was doing yoga on my back and have two people fussing over my man-bit.

Secondly, I’ve heard horrific stories of bruising and scalding waxes, all of which were products of inexperience. Was I truly prepared to lose my ability to have sex for a week, because of an impetus to exploit all that is free?

When I finally did turn up for the appointment, the thought of being in the room with two strangers no longer took precedence. I was now plagued with a far greater crisis; the runs. Over the last couple of hours, I was in the toilet 4 times, passing out stool that resembled more like curry.

Now hypothetically speaking, if I accidentally shit as a motor response to pain from the waxing, do I have to pay for laundry? And is it perfectly ok to kill myself because of embarrassment?

I’ve been told that having an erection actually aids the whole process of having hair ripped from your shaft, but I knew that was never going to happen because having a man have his hands on my balls has just about the same arousal quotient as watching a funeral and I don’t see how an erection is remotely possible for a heterosexual male. It will be like leg amputees trying to pass the standing broad jump.

Muthu also assured me that the trainer was highly experienced, a mother of two and she has probably seen more penises than Annabel Chong. The thing he failed to tell me was that she was young and attractive enough for me to have her on my Christmas wish list.

She quickly introduced herself and I had to pretend I was entirely comfortable with having one guy holding my balls while another girl that was younger than I was, looked on. So I quickly positioned myself in the most exemplified stance of comfort, which is essentially the hands behind the head position – coincidentally, is the adopted pose whenever your dick is the focal subject, like when having a blowjob.

I was in that pose for 4 mins, just right after the 3rd time he pulled off the strip, then I realized the default position of the hands should always be by the bed side to grip the sheets.

Guy: “Wow, you nort bard. Most guys always shouting you know.”

This was a Pinoy guy – possibly gay, cupping my balls while telling me that screaming was a perfectly common thing to do. Real men don’t scream. We laugh at the face of pain.

Me: “You don’t want to hear me scream. This is bearable.”
Trainer: “That’s because now only the sides. We haven’t gone to the centre yet. It will be a lot more painful later.”
Me: “What?”

As he got closer to the dick where the hair was a lot denser, every strip he pulled was like ripping a part of me with it. It was horrible. The pain was stinging and exponentially greater than it was just half an inch to the side. I might actually not survive this.

Me: “Has anyone passed out before?”
Both: “Hahahahaha.”
Me: "No, seriously."

I hate it when people thinking I’m joking about stuff.

In between, I said, ‘Fuck’ almost incessantly then I apologized for my language and decided the best way to distract myself from the whole masochistic episode, was so engage myself in a conversation. So I started chatting up the trainer and it was weird because here I was talking to a girl, but her eye was primarily focused on my dick.

So this is how it feels to be objectified.

She: “You should wax your thighs also. Makes it smoother”
Me: “I don’t think I’ll need it. No one touches my thigh.”
She: “Then your girlfriend touch already also shiok ma..”
Me: “Haa, I….”

Before I could even finish up my sentence, the guy pulled a strip off the shaft of the penis. And this, was so painful, it was like putting my dick against a grater, rubbing it then pouring salt over it. I was entirely out of breath and it lifted my head right off the bed.

Me: “….FFFFF....UUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKKIIINNNGGGGG HHEEELLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!”

I quickly looked to see if my dick was still there.

Me: “Please tell me that was the most painful part of the wax, because I cannot sit through another one of those. If the balls are going to hurt as much as this, then can we skip the balls, because I don’t mind having hair on the balls. I’m serious.”

She kept assuring me that this hurt so much because it was my first time and that I needed to continuously come back for waxing so that the hair would be finer.

She: “4-6 weeks, then you must come back again.”
Me: “I am in a little too much pain to even think it to be a sane decision to put myself through this again.”
She: “The next time it will be about 50% of the pain only.”
Me: “Really? That means 50% less chance of passing out.”

I looked down to see the hair all gone. It was finally over, because I will need to start cursing if this went on any longer.

Guy: “Okay, now please turn over.”
Me: “Massage?”
Guy: “Hahaha, no. We need to warx your butt crack.”
Me: “Is it okay if we skip that for today?”
Guy: “It’s really nort as painful.”

As if I'd trust anything anyone had to tell me now, but the good thing was that it really didn’t hurt. The only thing I was really worried about was my stomach, because it is one thing to shit while I was lying butt down, but to shit when he is in the midst of waxing? I believe that would be the first, for all of us.

When everything was done and he got down to tidying with the tweezer, I wondered if the dick was still even capable of an erection. I could still feel it throbbing, so I knew there was a pulse, faint as it might be, but still within the reach of resuscitation.

He went through a list of ‘don’ts’ that I had to abide, which included not bathing in hot water or rubbing the areas because it would make it susceptible to infection. I didn’t really give what he was saying a shit, because there was only one concern I had.

Me: “Can I still have sex?”
Guy: “Yes.”

And that was the best thing I heard all day.

Butterfly Goes For Facial

If you ever need to feel insecure about yourself, you can do things like, go for a foot reflexology or a facial. These places will tell u problems about yourself you never knew.

I went for one of those free facials the other day. You know, the ones that call you out of the blue and seemingly plucked your contact from the spaces of obscurity and will always re-emphasize the fact that it is FREE, whenever you invoke any semblance of a rejection.

Yes, we all know that these gimmicks are never sold without an accompanying session of hard-selling, but you must also know that if you say ‘no’ enough times, you can get away with anything.

Here is what transpired between me and the marketing girl prior to the facial.

She: “We are offering you a free facial trial.”
Me: “No thanks.”
She: “Why not? It’s FREE.”
Me: “Cos you guys are going to hard sell after the session and I am going to disappoint you.”
She: “There is no hard selling, don’t worry.”
Me: “Sure. Don’t say I didn’t warn you cos I’m very good at saying no.”

Naturally, these marketing people don’t give a fuck because their $7 per hour job focus is to get as many appointments as possible and leave the pimple squeezing, package pushing, hard muthafucking selling to the therapist.

They haven’t met me, but I pity them already.

When I finally got there and started off with the mandatory skin analysis – which you can correctly interpret as the critique session -, I was prepared for everything they were going to throw at me, but not before I embarrassed myself.

The therapist told me to lie on the bed, pointing to where my head should be and I don’t know if it was because I was so accustomed to massages or if the previous night’s vodka was still streaming through the veins, but I got on to the bed and I lay face down.

The good thing was that I didn’t start stripping, but beyond that, I left the poor lady with quite a shock because there was an entire eon of a pregnant pause that fell between her mid-sentence and she digressed from asking about my age to tapping,

She: “Eskeew me, sir. This one facial, no massage.”

I felt stupid for the next 3 seconds, then remembered that I was here for a free facial and I felt good all over again.

For starts, my complexion is something I’ve never been troubled with. I’m blessed with good genes that will allow me to use body foam in place of facial wash and still left valiantly scorning acne. Yet today, I sat through a barrage of negative comments.

It started with her telling me I had severely dried skin, clogged pores, high risk of acne outbreak and some other crap which I didn’t know. It kept getting worse as she continued her examination that I believed if I allowed her to continue, she would have found a tumor on my face.

Then she started her first round of recommendation, which was some 3-tier oxygen treatment and how it was going to infuse molecules in my face for rehydration. I heard the first minute of it and decided that I would have a more enjoyable time thinking about porn, and just insert my ‘no thanks’ when she shut up.

Therapist: “Do you want to try it?”
Me: “No thanks.”

Apparently, people who work in these spas are also deaf or they suddenly no longer understand English, because she kept on asking and I gave three varied replies of, “No”, “Bu yao” and “Mai la”, of which none worked and that pretty much expended my vocabulary.

She eventually called another girl in to explain the treatment to me and that girl was deaf too, so they gave up and proceeded with my very delayed facial package after 5 minutes of continous verbal regurgitation. The package I will summarize as,

Cold water, wipe, scrub, wipe, hot air blowing, cold water, massage, mask, wipe, massage.

I call that the ‘Fuck you freebie’ package; the prosaic treatment for people who have just wasted their time, space and cup of green tea.

I pretended to sleep after the scrub at first, just so that she would stop talking to me, then somewhere in-between, I genuinely dozed off and woke up only because I choked on my own saliva. I was gagging so badly, it gave her such a shock, she immediately ran out to get me water.

When the session finally ended, I braced myself for the onslaught of the inevitable marketing drive. These were people determined to close a purchase and I was determined to keep every dime on me. It was the irresistible versus the unmovable, and I was going to win.

These were some of the classic debates we had.

Lady: “You don’t take care of your skin now, you will have an acne outbreak soon.”
Me: “I heard that 10 years ago. They called it puberty. Never happened.”
Lady: “You must trust me, we are professionals, so we know. You see, you already have one pimple now.”

I thought this was absolutely ludicrous. She was fore-telling my future based on one pimple. And if you know me, you will know that a pimple itself is a rarity, much like pay increments, waking up for Sunday breakfast and buffets at a weight loss centre.

Lady: “Maybe you can try the miracle eye cream for your eye bag. Today we got promotional price, $138.”
Me: “It’s not going to work. I am going to sleep late, party hard and drink very little water everyday still.”
Lady: “No, but you can still buy and try it.”
Me: “It’s okay.”
Lady: “Why you say it’s okay? You come here means you care about your skin.”
Me: “Nooo. I came here because your tele-marketer girl said that it was a free trial and so I just came.”
Lady: “Who is the girl? What is her name?”
Me: “You tell me who’s the girl and what’s her name, cos I would like to have a chat with that liar, cos she said there wasn’t going to be hard selling.”

Then the lady got very defensive. Still irate, but very defensive.

Lady: “I am not hard selling mah, I am recommending.”
Me: “Really? Cos my answer is still the same.”
Lady: “But there is a promotional price for the cream today…”
Me: “… and tomorrow and the whole of this month. I’d be very honest. You can sell the cream at $50, throw in that hot air steam machine and free cotton wool for a year and I will still not use it.”

It was hilarious for me because there in front of me, was a lady, clearly pissed off that I wouldn’t cave, but still maintaining courtesy out of professional duty. I swear that at that very moment, she wished she was a professional boxer.

Lady: “Okay, since you say like that, then I don’t think we have any more to say. Thank you for coming.”

And she never made eye contact with me again from that point on. It was a high point in my life. I have never felt more proud of myself all week. One day, my name is going to circulate and they will learn NEVER to offer me free trials again.

It’s an economic axiom. If it’s free, exploit it. You might need to repeat yourself a lot on the rejection, but it will eventually pay off.

The Home Entertainment System Story

Pragmatism has shaped us into cautious beings that will eye all shady bargains with skepticism and rejection. We’ve all thread upon these paths, paved with enticing promises and deals that are baited with indigestible consequences.

Free holiday? That will be a 2 hour time sharing talk. Free spa? That will be followed with a session of hard selling packages. Free dinner? Always comes with a favour. Free drinks? God forbid, we do not reject those, ever. Free sex? So long as that’s the only thing they’re giving free.

Have we become too plastered with skepticism that we no longer believe in genuine deals that defy all economical basis? Have we aged so snobbishly that we religiously subscribe to that one commandment of, “if it’s too good, it ain’t true”? Have we lost the will to take that leap of faith because we are dictated by staunch logic and practicality?

I know I haven’t.

I’ve done it all, and survived it. Gone for a time share and emerged with their door gifts and not a penny less. Check. Gone for a free spa and didn’t sign a package. Check. This was simple, here’s how I did it during the post massage session where they will sit you down for a session of coercion.

Sales: “How was the massage?”
Me: “Worse massage ever.”

I left her speechless for what felt like an eternity. I believe no one has ever been this so brutally honest to her before. And by the time she composed herself for a marketing defense, the ice age came and went, Iraq lost the war, 10,000 kids died of starvation and I would have wrote an international bestseller in 20 different languages, including Sanskrit.

Sales: “Maybe I can arrange for another masseuse for you next time?”
Me: “Seriously, after what I went through, I don’t think there will be even a next time.”
Sales: “Erm, so I guess you won’t consider a package?”

And that was that.

But on Wednesday, I did the unthinkable and bought one of the van peddling home entertainment systems; for $100.

There I was getting ready to start the day with a round at some pub, when some guy approached me and started rattling off in Mandarin. Since he didn’t come with subtitles, I smiled and walked off because all I caught him saying was,

Him: “Ni yao ma? Ni yao ma?” (“Do you want? Do you want?”)

And this was all I needed to conclude that he was trying to sell me something which I had no idea on. I didn’t know if he was trying to sell me a hamster or hamburger, because he was speaking so fast, he would have recited the entire history of China backwards in that 2 minutes he was talking. I'm serious, he speaks so fast, he will make Eminem sound like an autistic kid.

And I still had no clue what he was saying so I said what all snobbish Singaporeans would say.

Me: “No thanks.”

This puzzled him to no end so he chased up to me and said in the first line of comprehensible Mandarin. (Of which the dialogues I will be translating to English)

Him: “Free one, you don’t want?”

I, like the slut I am, turned on the spot and sashayed back to him.

Me: “Free?”
Him: “Ya brother, free give you, you just take lah.”

Apparently, he told me some story about extra stocks and shit and that it was a home entertainment system worth close to $4000 and though I had no need for it, and my impression that home entertainment systems should a mini bar stocked with white spirits, I relented to take a look at the stocks.

So there I was, peering through the back of the van, and there he was, still rambling continuously in Mandarin. He was so talking so much and so fast that he started having white foam around the sides of his mouth, and I couldn’t bear confessing to him that I didn’t understand what he was saying.

Well partly because I was hoping that the foams were pre-cursors to an epileptic fit and that if he continued talking at that pace, he might go into convulsion and that would really be funny.

All I knew was that he had a home entertainment system that he wanted to off load and I knew it was never going to be free, despite his abortive effort to disguise it. I knew so because he told me that some guy in an SLK took a set from them and gave the 3 of them $500 each.

At that revelation, I started to turn and walk away and he chased up to me again to assure me that I was not obligated to give that amount, but a small token of coffee money was all they asked for. I gave them what I believed was my best offer for a system reputedly worth $4000.

Me: “I’ll give you $100.”

I don’t know whether he started laughing because I offered more than what he expected of me or that he was recalling a scene from some sitcom, because all he did for the next 3 seconds, was laugh. I make people happy all the time.

Him: “Brother, you serious anot? $100 for a home entertainment system?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “You’re not joking?”
Me: “No. $100 is all I got. You want, I’ll buy it.”

There was some huge discussion between them that I thought they were selecting the new leader for Causeway Bay or that they were planning how they would show me the middle finger. Then he turned back to me and started bargaining again.

It was like Bangkok all over again. He wanted $600 and I wanted to walk. He wanted $500 and I started laughing. He wanted $300 and I was still laughing. I said $100 and he started frowning. This went on for a good 5 minutes and then he even threw in some sob story,

He: “Brother help us abit. I one month pay only $900, how to survive?”
Me: “Wow, that’s like working for MacDonald’s, minus the Big Mac meals and free coke.”

He didn’t think I was even remotely funny because he didn’t laugh at all. I was so much funnier when I said “$100”.

Then finally,

He: “Open your car door, we’ll load it.”
Me: “$100.”
He: “Ya lah.”

I was so proud of my purchase that I spent dinner telling Faith, Germ, LB and Ange about it. Apparently, everyone of them thought I was a moron. All of them thought spending $100 on it was an utter waste of money and they were convinced that I was duped into buying an empty box.

Germ: "I can't imagine you would waste money and be duped like that."
Me: “It’s just $100 anyway, I spend like twice the amount a night on drinks anyway.”
Ange: “Yes, at least you get to enjoy the drinks.”
Me: “And I will enjoy this while watching Nights at Rodanthe. Why are you guys so convinced that the speakers don’t work?”
LB: “Obviously they don’t. If I’m your dad, I won’t even let you set it up. It might blow up your TV.”

All of them were utterly convinced that I had probably bought toy speakers and that there was no way the speakers would work, or even if they did, they would either be an explosive hazard or break down half way into a movie.

We shall see.

That Halloween 2008

Halloween has always been my one excuse to legitimately line my eyes with makeup and paint my nails black. And like all previous Halloweens where we start making provisions for it weeks earlier but end up doing last minute costume shopping, this was no different.

The great thing was that all the guys didn’t have a firm plan on what they wanted to go as and I had already given up to go as a Catholic Priest, not because I couldn’t find a small boy to go with me, but because it came to a point that I wanted all of us to be in a uniformed theme.

1 hour at the shop browsing through costumes aimlessly, while waiting for Faith, Totti and Muthu, we finally decided to head down to Mustafa to get overalls for all of us. The plan was to go as escape convicts and orange overalls would be a good replication of the famed Fox River 8, just that we had six.

By the time we got there, the orange ones were already sold out and they didn’t have the sizes we wanted. It was close to pushing 11pm and time was fast becoming a luxury denied to us, so we went with ‘fuck it, let’s just get this’.

When we got back to my place, I realized that the moron at the store had given me wrong sizes for the overalls. I should have seen that coming. I said, “2 XL and 4 L”, and he managed to fuck that up. And I always thought building computers should be so much more difficult, guess I was wrong.

The whole makeup process was hilarious for them. For one, none of them had till Friday, ever had any lipstick or eyeliner on before. And for me, I was shamelessly powdering my face to look pale and smudging eyeliner.

Reznor: “Oh my gawd. You look like a girl.”
Me: “I think I’m damn chio.”
LB: “Dude, you either look like transvestite or you look scary. You look both now.”

By the time we had completed our abuse on the things Shisheido had strived to make glamourous, it was already past 1.30am. We were the montley crew of nail painting heterosexual men in a $20 outfit with enough eyeliner to write an essay with.

And it was off to Butter Factory.

Obviously no one really knew what we were. We planned for convicts but we ended up something closer to an air-con repair man cum painter hybrid. And we just made up the story as we got along.

Girl: “So what are you guys suppose to be?”
Me: “Air-con repair men. We got killed on the job when the air con fell on us.”
Girl: “On all five of you?”
Me: “Job hazards. Hey, I’d rather die of liver failure if I had a choice.”

The great thing was that we went as a uniformed group, so there was a pseudo-identity waiting to be thrown up. It was a crisis of sorts, because some people thought we looked like the Ghostbusters, minus the proton packs and some thought we were going as the Backstreet Boys.

Some excerpts on the people we met at Butter.

This one guy was dressed in a cloak, vampire tooth and he had a plastic knife. The cool thing was that he was totally in character, lurking behind unsuspecting people and all.

Me: “Yo, this is so not cool. Dracula needing to use a knife.”

He pulled up his plastic knife in a mock attempt to slit my throat.

Me: “Okay you can kill me, I’m running out of vodka. It’s a good time to die. Oh wait wait, let’s take a picture.”

There were a couple of cross dressers. One was this Caucasian guy in a sun dress complete with high heels and leg hair. And it was hilarious because he was evidently struggling with the heels and he was walking with his legs so spaced apart he looked like he was playing hop scotch.

Reznor: “Hey Butterfly, that’s one girl that can beat the shit out of you.”

When we got out of the club, there was this girl who had painted tattoos all round her body, which included two on her cleavage. I thought she was hot, even after discovering her tattoos weren’t even real.

Me: “They aren’t real?!”
She: “Nope. I don’t have any. Do you?”
Me: “I have, but you’ll have to lick it if I show you.”
She: “Okay!”
Me: “I’ll give you three choices, the pelvic, the butt or the back.”

Then it was Zouk.

I was actually pretty surprised that the crowd had thinned out substantially by 4am. There was actually walking space and I didn’t have to have anyone’s crotch brushed up against me while walking or standing by the bar.

The great thing was that there were tons of familiar faces, most of whom didn’t look too convinced when I said I was a dead air condition repair man.

R: “That’s not very Halloween..”

I pointed to two of my friends, one who was in some chambermaid outfit and another in what I believe to be Cheongsam.

Me: “And I’m sure housing cleaning and Ang Pow collecting is.”

Then there were the ones I guessed wrongly.

Me: “Jedi master! Nice!”
Guy: “It’s actually a Samurai outfit.”

Me: “Are you supposed to be a witch?”
She: “This is not a costume..”

I laughed so hard at that because for starters, I thought it was a guy in a girl’s dress, so to discover that not only was she not wearing a wig and a costume, but she was legitimately dressed to party, tickled me to not end.

Those were about the best of what I could remember because after one bottle of champagne and another bottle of vodka and some tequila shots slotted in midway, all I could remember about was seeing someone dressed as Liang Po Po on the way out of Zouk.

And I think everyone’s story started only after the party at Zouk ended. I know mine did.


P.S: The pictures are uploaded on Facebook. The link is on the right column.