How To Lose Your Partner In 10 Ways - Pt 3

Let's get this continued..

6. Tattooing Their Name

There’s always been a jinx to this, like walking under a ladder, opening an umbrella inside the house or calling someone immediately after you’ve taken their number. Look, if there was a fairytale ending to tattooing someone’s name, then Walt Disney would have said so.

Everyone who has done so is either separated, divorced or in penitentiary for domestic abuse. Jolie did that with Billy Bob, and look where that has ended. The only one that has probably got away so far is David Beckham and that’s because he fucked up the spelling of her name.

I had a friend in secondary school that inked his girlfriend’s name on his thigh and she ended up running off with a lesbian. True story. I don’t know what is worse, getting hit by a bus or finding out your girlfriend is lesbian.

But Butterfly, I know people who have their partners names tattooed on them and they are still together, I hear you protesting already. I’m sure some of them make it through life okay, but it’s a rarity, much like Japanese virgins at 21 and I’m sure you can fit them all into a Cherry QQ.

It’s one thing to profess your love and devotion through body art, but it’s another thing when you are trying to defy a divine power. Don’t jinx it, if you really need to show someone you love them, take them out for dinner, buy them flowers, start practicing foreplay or if you really absolutely have to, change your phone wallpaper to their image.

Don’t tempt fate to be laughing at you for sitting through an hour of pain from tattooing and then another 2 hours of agony – financially and physically – trying to cover up your dumb idea. The only thing dumber than getting tattoos of each others’ name, is wearing couple t-shirts, because people aren’t smiling at you, they are laughing.

7. Staying too far from each other

They say Singapore is a small island, but unless you are driving a Lamborghini with impunity for traffic laws and speed limits, it’s still a huge ass pain travelling from one end to the other.

At the start of any courtship, distance between couples is a mere excuse to ‘spend more time together’ because travelling back and forth is apparently as orgasmic and fulfilling as a fresh oven baked pizza with extra cheese. It’s called a Relationship Life Cycle, so which means in time to come, sending her back to Jurong when you are at Tampines, is as rewarding as having genital warts.

It’s a simple rule; date within area codes. If you are in Bishan, then your pool of eligibles should be somewhere between Toa Payoh and Ang Mo Kio. Serangoon is okay, but if it’s Hougang, then you better have a car.

People who stay in the West, should only date people in the West, and maybe Johor Bahru, since I always believe that it’s actually in a different time zone, so if you are dating anyone in mainland Singapore – anything not Jurong, Choa Chu Kang or Westward – it’s like having a long distance relationship.

It’s a simple logic. When it gets too tedious and time consuming to travel to meet for lunch or for a ride home, it’s just going to put a strain on the relationship and unless you are rewarded with a huge plate of steak or mind blowing sex each time, it’s just not going to be worth it.

If your parents tell you that they are relocating to another district that is over 8 MRT stops from where you are, then start printing flyers to handout to your new neighbourhood, pimping yourself. The relationship you are in is going to degenerate faster than Michael Jackson’s nose.

Now with this simple grasp of geographical knowledge and human reflex behavior, you can apply it efficaciously to a relationship that you need to nip. Instead of being obnoxious and rude, which might end with you getting a beat down from your partner, move away, and get them to travel to you.

Any guy that will religiously send you back and pick you up from home when he stays on the other end of Singapore, is either a moron or he just hasn’t fucked you yet. Men are easier to read than a pre-school comic strip, it’s just that women are too blind to see.

Thank You For Not Talking

There are times when we should be allowed personal space and total silence, like when we are in the toilet, cab rides, on the verge of suicide and most importantly, when we are about to be waxed.

Sometimes people just don’t get it. If I wanted to have a conversation, I would have dialed a chat line and certainly not when I have my dick exposed and experiencing considerable pain. The only words that should be coming out of me are, “Arggghhhh” and “Give me morphine!”

Going for a wax is just like any other body treatment with therapists pushing for packages and treatments with fancy names, through hard critique of you. Yes, we all know this is a marketing ploy and that stepping in is an appointment for your self-esteem to take a bashing and come out looking like Rocky Balboa.

In a facial, you suddenly have the worst complexion in the world and you suddenly discover that your skin is in such dire states of dehydration of sorts, that you wonder if grafting skin from your ass is the only solution.

Go for a foot reflexology and you discover that your internal organs are in such a mess that you should either start auctioning it off on eBay to Chinese soup makers, or you start coming back for more massages that will miraculously cure everything down to in-grown toenails.

We are never adequate in these sessions, I’ve learnt that. But, what does it take for some peace and quiet? An iPod? A jab to their throats? This time, it was about in-grown hair and damaging hair follicles, and it took my wax therapist a lot of words to get that message across.

“When you don’t take care of your skin, your hairs can’t talk to you and tell you that they are hurt, so the only way for them to complain is to have in-grown hair.”

Like really? If stupidity had a voice, it would have sounded just like that. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to laugh or to bite my tongue off. Maybe I could pretend to faint and she’ll stop talking, but I certainly wasn’t about to risk being rude to someone who was in a position to administer pain to me.

I don’t get it. Is talking suppose to ease the situation? Is the sole intention to make what is already an awkward state irritating as well? Why would men want to talk or hear you complain when they are not wearing pants?

I got by most of the waxing with typical male answers like, “umm”, “yah” and “okay”. Then 10 minutes later, just as I was having wax applied to my ass, I added a string of new vocabulary to the conversation.

“Fuckkkk! Damn hot!”

It was so hot, I thought I was having my ass branded and that I might never shit again. It was like accidentally spilling boiling water on your ass, that for a moment I reverted into that reflex butt clench. Of all the questions and she forgot to ask if the wax is too hot for my ass.

Butterfly Goes On Cruise

I’ve always had a positive memory of cruises. There was the endless buffet spreads, the sanctuary of the video games room, the labyrinth like corridors of endless running and of course the in-ship theatre, which somehow seemed like the coolest thing since Transformers.

Of course, I was young then. Too young to even be allowed to hold a mug of beer or even appreciate mini-skirts and cleavages for that matter. And the cruise was just an extended session of being in a video game arcade.

15 years on, with more zest for life, a larger appetite for entertainment and probably not as much maturity, I sat by the balcony of my cabin and wondered, “what the fuck am I going to do for three days if I’m allergic to dice and cards?”

I figured. Cruises are great for two kinds of people; gamblers and Whales. It is paradise if you are trying to fight anorexia or have a new found embracement for obesity. Cruises are basically catered for people who want to gamble, have a buffet in-between and pretend that they can engage in other recreational activities outside the casino.

Let’s face it. There is nothing to do besides gambling or standing in a buffet line that has the same selection of food every day, that is worth your time or can justify your time away from proper bars and clubs in Singapore. And there isn’t even a proper cabaret show on board that has periodic wardrobe malfunctions.

It all started good. The champagne reception, the spacious balcony class rooms complete with, well, a balcony if you haven’t guessed it and a promising dinner with lots of wine. Then 2 hours later, having toured the entire boat enough to be qualified to re-write their fire escape routes, Poca and I were so bored, I would have paid $5 to watch re-runs of Under One Roof – which would normally be my choice of suicide reasons.

There was the arcade, which was fun for about the first $10 we spent, beyond that it was like putting a eunuch in an orgy. A decade ago, this place might have given me an erection, but these days, anything without a keyboard or internet services just doesn’t seem enough – unless I get to redeem a bottle of vodka with my games coupons.

Then there was the theatre, but unfortunately for them, we discovered Vuze and we have been religious bit torrent fans since, so there probably isn’t a movie we’ve not seen. So in a way, I’m actually socially responsible for refusing to buy pirated DVDs. Why buy, when you can download.

It was great that they had supper. The only problem was that it was the same food that was going to be served for breakfast, lunch and dinner as well. It’s like walking into McDonalds, you know you are going to be having McShit; the only difference is if we are having it with fries or nuggets or up-sized.

And then there was the casino. The familiar green felt tables, the buzzing jackpots that have been programmed to con all your money, the neon jackpot signs and the expressionless croupiers that doesn’t give a shit about you as much as you try to be friendly.

It was great for all of the 15 minutes that we were by the VIP baccarat tables, and the time when I was walking out with 3 x $100 chips in my left breast pocket. That was the last fond memory I had of the place, until we decided that going back to fuck at the balcony was going to be the highlight of the trip instead. I love Baccarat, it’s the best game ever.

It was just a wreck for the insipid attempt of creating alternative entertainments that are peripheral to the casino. The bars were either empty with lounge singers performing to an audience that looked like they would have more fun going for a kidney dialysis or choice of 60’s songs that suspiciously sounded as if the cruise was heading to Vietnam to join the war.

The next morning, we forcibly dragged ourselves out of bed at 6.45am to try to catch the sun rise. It was cloudy, we were still battling fatigue and phosphene and all we got to witness, was a glaring stream of light that outlined the clouds. It was at this point of time that I learnt never to wake up for anything unless it is breakfast, because it is going to be a fucking waste of time.

The ship docked at Port Klang and because I was convinced that there was nothing that could beat the potential hazard of dying of boredom on board the cruise liner, we decided to head into town to do some shopping and what better place than Port Klang’s very own mega mall; Jusco.

The place was massive. Imagine Vivocity, now multiply it by 2, remove all the decent clothes store, good looking people and restaurants and then add in an immeasurable quotient of boredom and suckiness. That’s Jusco.

The only great thing was the fish spa, because this was the first time I’ve actually had anything shown this much interest in sucking my feet. It was overwhelming in all honesty, because for the initial couple of seconds, witnessing a school of fish engulfing your feet takes quite a bit of digesting and a whole new level of tolerance.

Poca was freaking out and backed out entirely on doing the fish spa. I was 15 minutes into my treatment and convinced that I was not going to last another 15 minutes of tickling insanity and my mind was beginning to prance at the weirdest thoughts. What if they chew off my toenails? Do they know when to stop? Will I kill the fishes if I have foot rot? Are they going to charge the fishes to me if do kill them?

When we got back on the ship, I made the one mistake of not cashing out my chips. For one, I’m not an avid gambler, nor will I make a good one because I have an impulse for placing bets on wayward odds. I made three $100 bets on a tie with a 1-8 payout odds, and I lost them all. I hate Baccarat, it’s the fucking dumbest game invented ever.

We then hooked up with ManjaRockStar, D and VD for drinks, which was in part a pre-celebration for MRS’s birthday and in truth, another validated excuse to knock back tequila shots like nuns to communion.

There really wasn’t much to choose from when it came to drinking holes on board. It was about finding the least sucky place with decently priced alcohol and a crowd that preferably didn’t live through World War II. The place we settled for was so bad, it sucked more than a horde of prostitutes giving a blowjob.

It was pretty much a subdued session, even though we did run through nearly the entire bottle of crap tequila that tasted like it was made from cheapness – we could probably have enjoyed kerosene more. There were the intermittent dares of licking a plate of salt, a foiled lap dance attempt that was surrender to shyness and petty inhibitions, but nothing too gregarious like a bar top dance.

And that was the weekend. Gone as quickly as it came, poorer than when I started and more sober than usual. My mum should be so proud of me.

How To Lose Your Partner In 10 Ways - Pt 2

I know I’ve been awful at keeping up with regular posts, but coming back every night with a breath of vodka is hardly the right condition to be in. Let’s pick up from where I left off..

3. iPhone

While it is the greatest invention by mankind after the condom, this is also the biggest irony of technology and it’s mantra of bridging people or if Nokia was still alive, ‘connecting people’. Not many people realize it, but the iPhone is actually the aphesis of everything communal and social.

In short, this is the very reason why people are antisocial. And we are all so guilty of it; immersed in the cornucopian library of games or tapping away on that great social centric denominator that we call the World Wide Web. We are all as guilty as calories on a Kit-Kat dipped in lard.

So often am I at a table and the reflex action of everyone with an iPhone is to silently partition themselves from everyone else and just indulge in their new relationship with the iPhone. It’s like it’s a fucking Tamagochi, except that it vibrates and you can use it as a phone. And the poor Blackberry user is left all alone, that even talking would feel like masturbating.

Think of the iPhone as Robin Hood, robbing you of precious interaction between you and your partner – maybe sometimes it’s for the better because sometimes you need to shut up for a relationship to work. Remember, it’s only rude when only one person has an iPhone.

4. Threesome with a familiar

Threesomes are great, probably the best invention by the French since fries. And yet it is a delicate subject or act that needs proper stucture, rules and engagement when you are in a relationship. Having your dog present as witness does not count, and neither does your dildo, even if it has a name.

There are countless merits in a threesome, it’s like having a conference exchange on the latest sex positions and foreplay matters. It is anything but vanilla. It’s a proof of life and having lived it well. It’s an initiation passage of sorts. It’s about being adventurous together and it sure as hell beats phone sex.

It’s a known fact that threesomes with a mutual friend in an equation is a quotient for disaster and before that implodes, it comes with endless paranoia, nagging and sometimes a punch to the face. If you are planning for a third party, then anyone on your Facebook is not an option – this is one time having many people on your Facebook account will work against you.

We all know that threesomes with a friend complicates matters, just like how Dan, Serena and Vanessa found out. But we don’t need Gossip Girl or cable network television to tell us so because as great the session might be, there will always be an awkwardness that will greet you after that voracious orgasm.

You can be sure that any contact – platonic or coincidental for that matter – with that friend after, will be frown upon and accepted with a barrage of questions and rabid skepticism – a lot of it. If you are planning to lose a friend, then this is a great way and if you are (un)lucky, maybe the relationship as well.

Strangers are great insertions to this because it negates emotional attachments and chance of further infidelity. There should not be any exchange of contacts or handshakes for that matter when it is all over. Strangers are great for ‘no frills’ engagements amongst many other things like unexplained murders, syphilis and missing furniture.

There are tons of rules to iron out before you dive in – no pun intended. Is kissing allowed? How about snuggling? Who gets to go first? Who should you end off with? Are the girls allowed to kiss? Should men be allowed to kiss? Who’s in charge of the camera?

If you have that all covered, welcome to Nirvana, I hope it went well for you.

5. Paying for everything

One thing most girls don’t realize is that while men in general do not mind paying for trivialities like meals, movies and condoms, they also do not like the idea of always paying for it.

But Butterfly, men do not like women paying for them; I hear you say? My balls are dangling because they are gawking at your ignorance and stupidity. Who the fuck ever told you that men hate women paying is a liar or chauvinist – maybe both. But they are also definitely a moron.

Yes it’s that topic about a man’s pride and ego, but this is 2010; TV’s are getting slimmer, society is more receptive to anal sex and if the Mayan’s are right, the world is ending in 2 years. Pride and egos are commodities that are fashionably outdated much like Nokia and bubble tea. No man is ever going to honestly bitch about not having to pay.

It’s all about sustainability. Men are never going to always open the car door for you or keep the toilet seat diligently down. We are never going to always pay attention to what you are saying and naturally, we are never going to be happy if you keep making us pay for your shit.

Men might not realize this, but an independent woman is as alluring as tight asses and deep cleavages. We might not always admit it or maybe we are too conditioned by social mores and tradition to believe that it is not right for women to pay, but men actually appreciate the occasional offer of a treat.

If you are a woman and you are tattooed with the belief that men should always pay, then your myopia to changes in society is going to cause you to lose your partner. No man with a functional penis should take this shit either. If it’s equality that women want, then it’s time we gave them a bill or twenty.

If you are a woman, and you’ve been paying, then spare me 3 minutes while I laugh at your absolute stupidity because the only thing funnier than this, is discovering that your husband has a vagina. No man is ever deserving of your full monetary support, unless he is as awesome as Ip Man.

Friday's A Pain

“You need to call the ambulance. I am in great pain. My toe is fucking bleeding!”

I can’t begin to describe the state I was in or the circumstances that led up to that point. There was alcohol, that I was sure because if there weren’t any that was coursing through my blood and killing off sensibility, logic and my liver amongst other things, then I might not have been in this plight – but I would be in a lot more pain.

I know alcohol does many wondrous things to man, like inventing spaceships, explaining pregnancies and giving courage to those who seek. I know that it makes me an extraordinary conversationalist and pick up artist because just last Wednesday I accomplished a feat in 5 sentences that some men wait a lifetime to hear.

It was a random conversation that started outside the toilet that degenerated into a debate on age.

She: “How old are you? Turning 30 at most?”
Me: “Yeah, there abouts.”
She: “I’m turning 40.”
Me: “You wanna use the cubicle first? Your bladder might not be able to hold up.”
She: “Fuck you.”

Sure she was yelling, but that’s what women do when they are trying to get a point across to men, because they think we don’t listen. The truth is, we just like to see them pissed and also that watching TV is way more interesting than hearing someone nag.

Now, the situation about me on the ground, clutching my toe in so much agony that I would have made a leper look like he was having rashes. Was alcohol trying to prove a point to my inebriated consciousness that I am too much a hazard for my own good when I am drinking?

It was a Friday night and I was sitting bare-footed by the road, wondering if my toe needed a cast, or amputation to prevent bacteria spread or maybe it just needs a kiss. And all I hear is laughter from the boys and RotiPrata hitting the ground next to me with a twig.

One hour ago…

I made a forced grin at the sight of the bottle of Hennesy perched awkwardly in the middle of the table. Alone, naked without her usual entourage of ice buckets and jugs of water and hardly the temptress that she would have been if this was a different setting.

This was a Thai disco after all, so there was hardly a need for premium spirits to be on display and neither am I a gallant binge artist for brown spirits. The taste of champagne was still lurking in my palate and from what happened earlier that night, it looked like I was on a crash course.

Girl: “Help support me. Buy flower for singer.”

I had just gotten back to the table from the washroom, hardly had the luxury of refilling my glass and now I was harassed by a girl to buy flowers. So I did the only logically thing. I started drying my hands on her garland.

To say that she was livid would be a gross injustice to her, because she was staring so hard at me I thought we were playing charades and she was trying to be Medusa. So I stared back at her because I am Perseus, son of Zeus.

Me: “Are we challenging? Your eyes are so small, you are going to lose!”

For one, the girl so ugly, even a vibrator would have said no to fucking her and she looked like she was going to throw a punch at me. Finally, RotiPrata had to drag me away because he was convinced that at some point, she would have stabbed me with her fake nails and I was going to lose the staring competition.

We ended up doing more productive stuff with our time and alcohol.

Me: “Dude. You just need to wave at the dancers, smile and shout ‘you suck’. As long as you are smiling and waving, it doesn’t matter what you say. They’ll think that you are cheering them on.”

And that’s what we did for the remainder of the night and because we were waving so frantically at them, they actually thought we loved them and that at some point, we were going to hang garlands on them. Unfortunately, we are assholes and not drunk enough to be doing stupid things.

We left, and someone thought it would be a great idea to cross the road and climb the railings to the other side, just to hail a cab. It’s one thing when you are sober, but when you are inebriated, that is akin to taking a piss in the middle of the road and gamble that you don’t get hit.

Everything was great up to that point. The night had been more about salvaging and making the best of everything, than it had been about being at a great place at a great time, but generally I wouldn’t have complained much; until I decided to kick a can at the boys.

It was a can sitting so invitingly on the railing and I had a grand plan of how I was going to execute an inspiring roundhouse kick that would have made Donnie Yen proud and how the can was going to hit one of them in the face and everyone was going to have a laugh about it. Unfortunately, I had everything wrong except for the laughing part.

I don’t even know why I decided to kick it. It was not as if I was flexible to begin with or even capable to reach the top railing with my feet. It was not as if I was being provoked or that I had a purpose that was driving my action. It was not as if I didn’t know that stretching my legs above my waist had been a problem since turning 21.

Not only did I completely miss the can, I also ended up smashing my feet into the railing. The consolation was that the can fell off due to the impact my feet caused from tragically crashing into steel.

Me: “Fffff…… FUCKKKK!!!!”

There had never been a more agonizing cry since Rocky got the crap beat out of him or when we had to sit through 4 hours of Star Awards.

Me: “My toe is bleeding!!!!”
RP: “It’s not bleeding lah, don’t be so ah gua.”
Me: “Are you fucking blind? Does this look like nail polish to you? This is blood!!”
D2: “Look up for the camera.”
Me: “I am in great pain. Do I look like I can look up? You need to call an ambulance. I need to go to the hospital.”

15 minutes later, I am sitting outside Living Room still clutching on to my toes with my socks and shoes next to me on the ground. The security is eyeing me in contempt and no one gives a shit about me.

Security: “Sorry sir, please don’t sit here.”
Me: “I can’t find my friends and my toe is in terrible pain.”

He has his ‘I don’t give a shit about your toe, but I will beat the shit out of you with my fist’ face, so I don’t even attempt to be a wise ass. I might lose a toe, so my immediate goal for the night is to protect my remaining body parts.