Monday, February 23, 2009

The Dating Showhand

Is dating no longer a journey of discovery?

As time comes to lay claim to my youth and society sheds its pseudo exo-skeletal of conservatism in favour of liberal pursuits, I’ve come to realize that dating is no longer a passage of chance and discovery of partners, but instead, it’s now a deliberate display of limitations and flaws.

Through time as my notoriety spreads and my face becomes increasingly familiar, I find a lack in the need for me to properly introduce myself. It’s gone from,

Hi, my name is Butterfly. I am an asshole, I have short attention spans, no morals and no emotions. Commitments irritate me and expectations crumble me. If you are fat and stupid, you will be laughed at.”


Hi, my name is Butterfly, but you already know me. Are we hooking up?”

This was great for me because people already knew what to expect from me, and I always believed that honesty was the best foundation for any form of dating to be built on. It worked so well that 4 years on, I still remain single.

Yet of late, women too, are no longer contented to taking a leap of faith. Instead, we weave in our shortcomings in parabolic quips and anecdotal instances. We comment on our flaws blatantly to sift the eligibles from the generic improbable. We now play out our flaws and expectations like a game of poker, waiting to see who folds up first.

It’s almost like a filtering process where we say, “Here are my issues. Let’s date if you are fine by them”. And there I was thinking that contractual dates with a time expiry was something only I would propose. Then some time back, I found myself negotiating on dating terms.

It all started when she whined about lack of eligible men who would break her mould of boring pencil pushers. This was over a glass of Bellini and I thought it was absolutely ridiculous that she was having a drink with me and yet I wasn’t even considered.

I raised my hand in mock protest and questioned how she could ever have excluded me in her list when wit and humour played considerable catalytic nods in her choice of men.

She: “That’s because you are a very confusing guy. I think you are a very nice guy, but I also think you are a player. Which are you?”

On the one part, one testimonial of me sending a drunk friend home and not exploiting the situation -despite her having her hands all over me and her tongue very nearly in my aural orifices -, changed her perception of me. This was despite the fact that I explained that morals and chivalry had nothing to do with it, but only because she was drunk and I was worried she was going to chug on me.

I have no restraints when it comes to kissing hot women, and promptly assured her that if the girl was sober, I would have fucked her. I do not have that much integrity to de-track the advances of attractive women.

Me: “I’m definitely not nice.”

Then almost as if a defense mechanism kicked in, we started a list of anti-dating campaigns that would make Cupid turn in his grave.

She: “I’m not looking for anything long term, cos I’m leaving.”
Me: “It sits well with me that commitment is not your thing.”

At one point it spilled over to horoscopes, which I have no clue on as to the zodiac compatibilities because in my world, compatibility is measured in cup sizes, sex drive, dancing ability and choice of music.

And it’s an unorthodox exchange because in conventional dating, the right approach would be to impress, compliment shamelessly and then throw in a good dose of deception. Oh, we all know half the shit people say while they are trying to court a person only stays true till after the honeymoon period ends. It’s called a relationship life-cycle.

Yet, this has become strangely familiar to me. If I’m not keeping my distance and reminding people how much of an ass I can be, then it is them telling me how unpredictable and demanding they will be if we started dating.

It works like this,

Girl: “I need a lot of attention.”
Me: “I need a lot of space and time alone.”
Girl: “I need to know where my man is at all times.”
Me: “I hate having to report to anyone on my schedule.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were made for each other. Whoever said relationships are built on differences is a moron and probably has a girlfriend with such enormous tits that it is solely sustaining the relationship.

The day it sags to her knees is the day he is going to realize that, that was the dumbest quote in history. Topped only by that Subaru challenge winner years ago who when asked what was his secret to winning said, “I realized it’s not about mental determination. It’s about keeping your hands there”. Wow Sherlock, we never realized that.

Has dating really degenerated into a state of being able to digest your partner’s flaws? Or is this just a disclaimer, to reject all future blames by simply saying, ‘I told you so’. We are taking out the joys and perils of discovery and injecting it with predictability and honesty.

Hi, my name is Butterfly. And this is what I can offer..

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

The mIRC Days

The internet has been a medium for fantasy. Behind the monitor, with a keyboard and some really fancy Photoshop skills, we are who we say we are. I am Butterfly, news-reporter by day, rich tycoon by night, superhero by profession and I can pee alcohol.

I’ve never been much of a fan on the concept of knowing people online through random profile pages. For one, I don’t have that much time to be surfing profiles and if I did have the time, I’d be writing my book. Blaque, Reznor and LB on the other hand will preach you on the merits of this and would have archived stories to palaver you with.

They will swear by sites like Wholivesnearyou, MySpace or Friendster and the abundance of possibilities that these sites can offer for a trip to the bedroom. I on the other hand, remain skeptical to this realm of lies.

How do I know people lie about themselves? Well, MySpace has a search function that allows you to filter people based on physical classification. I clicked on ‘athletic’ and the search still came up with whales. I don’t know what culture you come from, but being built like a sumo wrestler is not athletic in mine.

Yet, long before social networking platforms like Friendster or Facebook came into play, teenagers battling puberty and internet sex predators alike, depended on chatrooms to make new friends, meet new activity partners, or hire new ‘alter boys’ for the Catholic churches.

And at the peak of them all, was mIRC, which translates to Internet relay chat. I don’t know the technical mechanics of it, but it had a simplistic interface which looked like some facelift of any DOS based program, except with more colours. I didn’t give a shit because it was so damn addictive to be sitting home all day talking to strangers. That was when I was 16 and still not old enough to pamper myself with alcohol, but if you are 28 and still doing that, I will laugh at you.

When I was 16 however, I was hardly a fitting reflection of myself today. I wasn’t as out-going, didn’t like the taste of alcohol and didn’t see the need to date women. Blaque on the other hand, was huge on the idea of meeting complete strangers of the opposite sex.

This involved a process of first filtering candidates based on nickname. It was a short funneling process of sifting the pretty ones from the lot and Blaque always believed the more materialistic or ‘ah lian-ish’ the nick was, the prettier the girl.

For instance, Gucci-girl would take precedence over Bata-girl.

I remembered sitting in Blaque’s living room while he was serenading to some girl with his guitar years ago, when leaving voice messages and knowing the lyrics to any Backstreet Boys’ song was still cool. And in the midst of this all, were blind dates, bell bottom jeans, Wywy Wonderspace, and a girl called, Cashel.

I was dragged by Blaque to meet up with this one girl whom had given the following description of herself; slim, long dyed hair, no pimples and big eyes. This was a decent reason to meet up by any standards. And we did, because by simple facial piecing, that didn’t sound any bad. At 16, a lot less picky and relatively un-influenced by important character traits like cleavages and nice asses, this was a great idea.

It was to be at Raffles City Burger King and we went down earlier than the proposed timing basing entirely on the merits of ambush. We were young and shallow, but smart enough to come up with a contingency bail plan and proper exit route.

When we finally did meet her, the plus point was that she didn’t lie on any part of her description, save for the fact that she didn’t warn us that she was a dead ringer for Patricia Mok, and mind you – this was not post fame Patricia, but how she looked like when she first burst on the scene as some two bit calefare playing staple roles of the perennial ugly duckling.

We did what any self-respecting man would do, we bailed.

She started calling Blaque and his conscience eventually kicked in despite me trying to drown it out with, “Do not fucking pick up the phone”. He started throw huge words like, ‘retribution’ and ‘promises’ to me, of which even at that age of innocence, sounded exceedingly vulgar.

So I devised a plan and we played it to an angle seemingly that we bailed because we had a friend who needed help. She offered to come along and at 16, I wasn’t so good at making excuses, so her persistence was met with no further resistance. I was disgusted with myself.

She ended up tagging along with us for the whole day and Blaque refused to let me leave, so I could only show my displeasure by the only way I knew how, by sulking. I don’t believe I’ve sulk more in my life, because I frowned so much, if you saw me then, you would have thought I had a botox malfunction.

The things I do for my friends.

mIRC was fun because you could immersed yourself with make-believes and faux personas, whether it was therapeutic for inferiority complex, baiting sexual preys or predators, playing a prank or communicating with fellow terrorist.

It was the realm you lord over, the cathartic escape or the sanctuary of solace. It was where friends were made, bonds were forged and virginities lost. In fact, I actually believe it is a communist tool because it was the denominator that wiped up all basis of physical attractiveness. If I was doing marketing for mIRC, my slogan would have been,

If you are fat and ugly, you still stand a chance”.

Popularity was solely by chance and leveraged modestly by the choice of nicknames. It was like Russian Roulette, a game of chance, hits and misses. Randomly starting from the nickname, then progressing to preconceiving images based on voice and what little superficial characteristics we knew about them.

mIRC gave everyone a level playing field. You could have been some pimply teen battling the wrath of puberty and the consequences of a $10 daily allowance, but over the medium of a chat room, you are the heir to some New Zealand cattle ranch with enough milk to feed half of Somalia. Oh and of course, you also happened to be built like a Greek God.

And I wonder why it’s popularity died off..

Thursday, February 12, 2009


I've never really had the time to read most of the things I've posted, but these are some of the classics. And this is to buffer until I compile my list of 10 bloggers/online personalities I want to meet. I am truly lazy.

The Relationship Life Cycle - Female
The Relationship Life Cycle - Male
The Dating Dictionary
Surviving Orchard Towers
When Men Become Pussies
Butterfly's Marketing Pt 3
Butterfly's Marketing Pt 2
Butterfly's Marketing Pt 1

And to reply people who have asked me this, yes, if you do have something you want me to write on, and it is interesting enough, I will.

If you read these before. Read it agai. How simple is that.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Chinese New Year begins to Suck

Does bitterness and discontentment come with age? Have I thoroughly outstripped my propensity to indulge in the festive spirits?

There aren’t many things I look forward to in the calendar year. I hate Valentine’s Day because there never really is a reason to celebrate it and it isn’t even a holiday. I hate birthdays because when you can legitimately enter all clubs, there really isn’t a reason to age. I hate Christmas because I found out Santa is really just my credit card.

Chinese New Year has always been the highlight of the year, because it proves that marriage isn’t always the better thing and I feel like I’m being rewarded for staying a bachelor. It is the one time that I know people are going to be indirectly sponsoring my drink tab. It is the one time I can play mahjong through the night without the cops coming by.

Not this year.

I remembered when I was a lot younger, way before alcohol and sex were ever introduced to me, I would collect so many Ang Baos, that I needed a pouch to keep them and by the time CNY wrapped up, I would have over 100 packets to pull out the notes from.

These days, if I still had my pouch, I could keep 6 packs of cigarettes, an iPod, the Ang Baos and still have enough room in there for a kangaroo. And as I am typing this, I am doing a count of the red packets and I do not even have 20 of them.

Do people not realize that as I get older, my expenses climb at an exponential rate that far exceeds the prevailing rate of inflation? Do people not realize that even within the midst of an economic pandemonium, I still have high expectations of reaping good returns just because it is CNY? Do people not realize that I don’t think it’s funny when they say, ‘so big already, don’t need to give Ang Bao’, and I STILL expect to be given one?

There is only one rule when it’s CNY,

As long as I am un-married, I get an Ang Bao

And I, as a gesture of reciprocation and goodwill, will greet you with trivial niceties and superficial well wishes of striking the lottery, but only because if I win, I don’t want to be sharing with anyone else. And if it’s going to be a nice fat packet, then I’ll even do a “Happy Niu Year” or “Have an Oxpicious Year” crap.

And that’s as far as I will degenerate myself to, because I think it’s a fucking irritating pun. It’s so irritating deaf people will tell you to shut up.

One reason why there has been a dip in absolute numbers, is also attributed to the fact that being in close proximity to a kid, automatically surrenders your chance for one. This is only because you are by default, the kid’s father.

No, surely people are not so vocal with such hasty preconceptions? Who would ever mistake a guy carrying a diaper bag and a kid as the father? Why would anyone posit such an impression? Aren’t fathers supposed to just drink beer and pay the bills?

Well obviously, this guy was so sure of himself to have shot such a desultory remark, quite randomly if you asked me, because it went from the stock market to, ‘Your baby looks like you’ and it had such a pregnant silence that followed, that I was convinced I could hear Elmo getting shot on Seasame Street.

You can imagine the situation. There sat the guy, thinking his compliment was going to save him a red packet. There I was, suddenly realizing why no one was giving me red packets. And there my sister sat, with an eternity of awkward glances between the guy and myself.

Me: “I’m not the father.”

And that was all it took to turn smiles into gaping holes between two lips, because as embarrassing it was for him, the last thing he needed was a comeback to save his remark. All he had to do was shut up or said the baby was cute, but no, he had to be a smart ass.

The other problem with CNY is that you get to see all your extended family repeatedly over the 2 weeks. That’s not a bad thing generally, but everyone needs to ask or say stupid things before they surrender the red packet over.

It would range from, “So when getting married” to “So big already better get married fast” to “where is your girlfriend”. Whatever happened to “good luck in your studies” or “be a good boy”? Has the economic downturn eroded all traditions of well wishes? Has society regressed into such a parsimonious shell that everything out comes with an earful of crap?

And where are the hampers? Years back, we used to have so many hampers delivered to us that if my house was at a corner, we could have setup a mama (convenience) store. I’m serious, all we needed was for one of them to come with fresh fish and we would qualify as a cold Storage.

This year? No one has even sent us a cupcake.

How am I ever going to enjoy myself every Chinese New Year if this keeps up?

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Butterfly Hates Jurong Point

There aren’t many things in life that can actually piss me off. I might be guilty of being critical of many things like obesity, non-alcoholic drinks, Chihuahuas and Michael Jackson, but very rarely am I actually compounded with irritation on a singular entity.

Sure I hate rain, but I think they are great for sleeping in. I hate pain, but I'm addicted to tattoos. I hate Whales, but watching them dance has such intrinsic humour in it. I hate laughing at disabilities, but have you guys actually seen Rugby on wheelchairs? I hate Jurong point, PERIOD.

Despite people telling you how small Singapore is, it is not. Not when there is Jurong. I swear, it is in a whole different time zone. As I am typing this, it is 11.30pm from where I stay - which is central-, it is 10pm in Jurong. That’s right, if you are travelling from the East to Jurong, you actually reach your destination ahead of time. That’s how you get daylight savings.

How people in Jurong actually get to work in other parts of the island on time is a mystery to me, because I believe they get up at about 5.00am Jurong time (6.30am standard time) and they make their way to town.

I’ve only been to Jurong Point twice in my life so I have no clue as to why people would actually go there unless they stay there. I would have told you that it’s a dead town, but I was wrong, because there were so many people, I thought I took a wrong turn and ended up in Orchard Road.

The only reason why I actually went to Jurong Point was because my usual hair stylist got transferred there, I was too lazy to find a new one and I thought it’ll be nice to take a drive there. Three words to sum it up.


For one, the journey took forever. I was driving for what I believed to be 2 days and I was expecting to see a welcome to Penang sign by the road anytime soon. When I finally got there, I couldn’t find a parking lot. No parking lot at a neighbourhood mall only says two things to me. Bad architectural planning or supermarket sale.

I finally found a lot and I got up the nearest entrance only to find the place packed with people. It puzzled me, but I was late for my appointment since I didn’t expect Jurong Point to be somewhere near Guangzhou, so I rushed off to find #B1-42.

The bad thing was that people walk VERY slowly there. This is something I am not accustomed to because in Raffles Place, everything moves in double quick time, even the escalators work like it’s on Speed. In Jurong Point, everyone seems like they all came from a mass weed festival, because even Terry Fox would whip their ass in a 100m sprint.

I can’t even begin to use the word ‘strolling’ because these people are stopping to look at every other shop. My gawd people, it’s a neighbourhood joint, it’s the same shit every day. And there I was weaving in and out from the human congestion trying to find a simple unit number, while trying not to trip over a stroller.

Now, how hard can it be to locate a single unit number you ask? Well, if this was like any other shopping mall, then it’ll not be a problem, because all you need is a pair of eyes and simple arithmetic sense. Oh no, but in Jurong Point, you need a fucking GPS.

When I finally found the unit number, it turned out to be Banquet. Like what? So, I whipped out the iPhone and checked the internet again, just in case I got the unit wrong. And there it says, “Begin a New Chapter at Jurong Point….#B1-42”. Begin a new chapter of pissness yes, because I cannot possibly be wrong.

So I turned to the closest guy next to me.

Me: “Is this Jurong Point?”

He gave me the look like I was a moron because, where else can I fucking possibly be in the fucking middle of Jurong? He nodded and walked off. Convinced that he might be new to Jurong too, I made a quick check with the security guy, who also confirmed that I was at the right shopping centre.

I made couple more rounds in the place, but 10 minutes later, equally lost and a lot more irritated, I called up the outlet.

Me: “Hi, can I check with you where is your outlet located exactly?”
She: “We are at #B1-42, Jurong Point.”
Me: “I am at #B1-42 and it says Banquet. There is chicken rice and prawn noodles, but no hair saloon.”
She: “We are opposite DBS.”
Me: “I am new to Jurong Point, I do not know the shops.”
She: “Oh, I think you are at the other Jurong Point.”

There is ANOTHER Jurong Point? Do they not know that when you build a shopping mall, you do not build another with the same name? How many fucking Jurong Points can there possibly be?

So I quickly checked with the security again, who pointed me towards the other Jurong Point. Now, there needs to be a simple rule when it comes to joining shopping malls. Firstly, you show a clear distinction or sign that tells you that you are transiting into a new building. And secondly, send me a fucking SMS when it is done.

Why the hell would you want to make it look like it is a mega mall and have same unit numbers? I hate Jurong Point.

I was 30 minutes late, walked way beyond my daily limit, thirsty and in need of a hair-cut. When I got there, I found out that because I was late, I had to wait for 4 more people before I could cut. You can imagine how thrilled I was to discover this.

So what did I do? I opted for some other stylist to cut my hair. So let me re-cap in case you do not see the moronic underlining of this. I travelled all the way to the West for a specific hair stylist, got lost for 30 minutes, and ended up with a novice stylist that looked like she just came out of a Cosplay convention.

I have got to be the dumbest person in that room.