The Co-incidence

I was browsing through my notes and found this note that I had typed out a couple of years ago. Who would have thought that today I would have the opportunity to act it all out at the expense of my dignity and for the pleasure of the whole of Singapore? These pearls of wisdom are the ones that didn't make the cut for the Bonda Bedah Berates video. Have a good read!

School For Mothers

May 4, 2011 at 12:16am

PublicFriendsOnly MeCustomClose FriendsLagardère ServicesSee all lists...FamilyLimited ProfileSingapore, Singapore AreaLasalle SIA College For The ArtsBartley Secondary SchoolSingapore Armed ForcesAcquaintancesGo Back

There is. I am not kidding you. I stumbled upon this textbook: How To Be An Effective Working Class Malay Mother. Apparently all our mothers come from this school. Here are the Ten Golden Rules.

1. Threat your kids with death

"Aku terjun baru korang tahu! Bila aku dah mampos baru korang tahu nasib korang!"

(Later when I jump down to my death then you all know your luck!)

2. Compare your kids with other over achieving kids

"Kau tengok anak Cik Timah, semua baik jadinya! Mana yang tak tinggal sembahyang, mana yang pergi universiti. Sejuk perut si Timah tu. Ntahlah, anak-anak aku susah lah, tak boleh jadi macam diorang."

(Look at Aunt Timah's children, all successful! Can go university, doesn't forget to pray daily. What good luck. My kids? Hopeless. Can never be like them.)

3. Ask for an extravagant amount of money from your kids.

"Jangan bohong dengan aku! Hah, kerja overtime aku tengok hari-hari, buang duit dengan orang tua susah!"

(Don't lie to me! You work overtime everyday, want to give parents money also hard.)

4. Scold your kid's friends who sneak into your house when you're not in.

"Ah bagos!! Masuk satu-satu macam pencuri! Berambus pun macam pencuri!!"

(Good! Sneak in the house like a burglar, leave the house also like one!)

5. Use "Kau nak jadi setan?!" at least once a day.

"Kau maghgrib-maghgrib tak tahu nak balik eh!? Kau nak jadi setan?! Ah bagus, bawak anak dara mana ntah balik rumah. Kau nak jadi setan?! Yer, subur-subur semua masih membuta. Kau nak jadi setan?!"

(It's dusk already you don't know how to return home? You want to be a devil? Good! Bring a girl home! You want to be a devil? Good! Before dawn all sleeping like a log. You want to be a devil?")

6. Sad, sacrificial stories. Use your tears.

"Aku selama ni korban, tangan jadi kaki, kaki jadi tangan besarkan korang tapi satu anak pun tak kesiankan aku. Sob. Dari kecik aku bela sampai dah besar panjang. Sob. Ni balasan korang kat aku? Sob, sob, sob.

(All these while i sacrificed, i used my four limbs to go out and work not even a single child pities me. I raised you all from small until you guys become adults. This is how you repay me? Sob Sob Sob.)

7. When your kid turns 21, every day, you must ask them about marriage.

"Bila aku nak timang cucu? Bila kau nak kahwin? Kau takda kawan ker? Bila nak bawak kawan kau balik rumah?"

(When can I hold a grandchild? When are you getting married? Don't you have a girlfriend? When are you going to bring your girlfriend home?)

8. And when they bring their gf/bf home, criticise.

"Betina/jantan apa kau bawak balik? Pakai tak senonoh, dengan orang tua tak tahu salaman, bagus lah, jantan/betina gini kau nak jadikan bini/laki?!"

(What kind of gf/bf are you bringing home? Wear so sleazy, don't know how to respect elders, this kind of man/woman you want to make a husband/wife?)

9. If you have a son, always threat that his future wife will never be like you. If you have a daughter, threat that she will never be like you.

"Nanti kau kahwin bini pengotor, baru ah kau tahu langit dengan bumi. Situ tempat tido, situ tempat main, situ jugaklah dia menyerakkan."

(One day you will marry a dirty woman then you will know. Sleeping area, eating area all at one place.)

Or.

"Kau memang tak boleh pembersih macam aku. Buat kerja rumah punya pemalas, masak, haram! Nanti kau dah kahwin, kasi laki kau cekik Maggi hari-hari!"

(You are not as clean and pedantic as me. So lazy to do housework. Cooking? Far from it! Later when you get married, you eat Maggi everyday lah!)

10. Nag. Nag about everything. Minimum is two hours. Great mothers nag throughout the night and continue till next morning.

I don't have enough space to type the nagging. Go figure.

Did I tell you that there will be a PART TWO OF BONDA BEDAH BERATES? Wait for it bitches. I mean, peaches.

25 Versions Of Love

1) Love is waking up beside your girlfriend in the morning and trying your level best not to scream at her make-up less face.

2) Love is seeing your boyfriend wearing bermudas and Crocs to Orchard Road and not fucking him upside down there and then.

3) Love is saying"It's gorgeous" when your boyfriend presents you a crummy ring.

4) Love is asking your girlfriend "Where else you want to shop at baby?" after waiting for her to shop for 3 hours in front of Tangs.

5) Love is paying the monthly installment for your Mat's Gilera cause his NS pay is not enough.

6) Love is hearing your boyfriend butcher an Aerosmith song during a wedding and still acknowledging that you are with him afterwards.

7) Love is listening to her complain about her work for two hours and nodding your head like you actually give a shit.

8) Love is getting laid even after buying for her a fake Louis Vuitton bag.

9) Love is seeing the blood stain on your bed sheet on her "heavy flow" day and not freak out about it. At all.

10) Love is going with her to a Justin Beiber concert and wearing matching "I'm a Beleiber" t-shirt.

11) Love is seeing her non-existent breasts, cupping them with your...thumb and saying, "You're beautiful baby."

12) Love is trying hard to not shout, "As if you're a Victoria Secret's Angel!" when she asks you to work out and look like "one of them Abercrombie and Fitch boys".

13) Love is foregoing your football match with the boys to accompany her to pick  and buy a scented candle...for her toilet.

14) Love is swallowing your pride and ego when you open up your pants and she goes, "Awwww? So cute!"

15) Love is going to a soccer match at the stadium...and bringing her along.

16) Love is talking to her for another hour or so after you already came.

17) Love is using up half of your NS pay to buy for her first row seats at the Big Bang concert.

18) Love is buying for her a silk sari and then have her throw it in your face saying she wanted a cotton one instead and still not setting her up on fire.

19) Love is buying for her Kotex, maxi with wings, publicly in Cold Storage, no questions asked.

20) Love is buying for him the latest Diablo game and not complaining one single bit days afterwards.

21) Love is keeping all the movie stubs you've both watched together as a couple and not use it for blackmail later on in the relationship.

22) Love is having a joint bank account, before marriage.

23) Love is sitting in the passenger seat as she drives and keeping your mouth absolutely shut throughout the entire destination.

24) Love is seeing the toiler cover flipped open and not screaming.

25) Love is telling your parents that you're forking our 3/4 of the wedding expenses because he's between jobs.

Hazy Moments

Whenever I smell smoke in the air, it could only mean two things: Chinese Ghost Festival or The Haze. And considering that it's only June, the only deduction that I can make is that out Indonesian neighbours are having a ball of a time burning their rain forests.

Looking at the foggy, thick haze out of my window, I made a mental note to myself to NOT tell some loner in my friend's list to "go out and smell the roses, soak up the freshness of the air outside".

I mean have you seen the condition outside? We look like a post apocalyptic nation. Here's hoping that the Singapore Eye increases it's speed and acts as a giant fan to blow all the haze away. Being bankrupt doesn't mean you get to be useless.

So the health authorities have advised us all to be more cautious when walking outside, and to use a mask if need be. I think it's a brilliant idea. Between the smoke in the air and the stench of some people in public transports, it's probably a good call on your part to wear a mask. For cheap ass Singaporeans, your mum's bra would do just fine.

They also advised us to drink more water because you know, that's the first thing to do in any situations: drink more water. I personally feel that "drinking more water" is such an overrated and overused piece of health/medical advice.

It's like the go to advice for any medical problems.

Heat rash? Drink more water.

Breakouts? Drink more water.

Heartburn? Drink more water.

Seizures? Drink more water.

Cancer? Drink more water.

Stroke? Drink more water.

Husband beat you up? Drink more water.

I'm kidding. Drinking more water in fact is a ver good way to keep your health in check. Especially in this weather. So please go, go drink more water. All it gave me was bloatedness.

Anyways yesterday I met up with the three stooges and star arrived with a mask on her face, like a good citizen that she is.

"Bbbbbuuuu thissss keeewing me," She mumbled from behind her face mask.

"You're indoors and about to have dinner. Take out your damn mask and stop being a fucking annoying piece of shit. It's hazy here for us too," I sternly said. The haze, as you can see, is also making me a grumpy person.

"I said the haze is killing me," Star rolled her eyes.

"Much better. You look less like a fool talking without your mask on," I smiled.

She threw a paper napkin at my face.

"It's like 1998 all over again," Steve said.

"My throat is killing me and I have not even gone down on anybody yet," Melanie sighed.

"Ohmygod remember that time when you got a nasty throat infection after giving a blow job to that Russian dude?" Star laughed.

"Wow, I don't think that's even remotely funny, let alone worthy of a topic to be discussed on the dinner table," I said.

"They should invent a wash for dicks. Vagisil for men. Cause gurl, I ain't having another throat infection from giving head. They can call it Dickisil or Penisil," Melanie loudly bemoaned.

"I thought we were talking about the haze? How did we end up talking about vaginal wash?" Steve looked up from his menu, amused.

"All I know is that I am never going out again in this weather. The air purifier at home needs my outmost sympathy. It's been on overtime these past couple of days," Star said, keeping her mask inside her bag.

"Does this mean that your slutty alter ego is on an indefinite break?" I asked Melanie.

Star and Steve laughed.

"My throat is in pain but my hands and man-made vagina is still working, haze or no haze," Melanie snapped her fingers.

Wow.

P/S: Please take care of yourself peaches in this haze. Remember, DRINK MORE WATER.

Embarrassed, Embarrassed

Everyone has had embarrassing moments in their lives. Some are laughable and easily forgotten, some are mortifying and scarred you for life. I myself have experienced such moments and every time I think about it (which is quite a lot) I get the same sinking feeling in my heart similar to that time when I saw Liz & Dick on HBO during a drunken stupor.

So here's my top 3 most embarrassing moments (in no running order):

1) I was greatly involved in my school's drama club and this passion stemmed from the fact that I was a boisterous drama king (queen to be honest) in the making and I just needed an avenue to channel all that energy to and what better place to do so than the stage?

Year after year, time after time, you would see me again and again, up on stage for a myriad of occasions. Speech day compere, class debater, oratorical contests, literary evenings, drama nights blah, blah, blah. Always Harry. And soon enough I was becoming the go to guy for all these stage related events. People got sick of me, I was sure of that.

To cut the story short, I was 15 going on 16 and had put up a show which I had written and directed myself and I made this joke about "raining hotdogs" and nobody in the audience laughed. The school assemble was so quiet you could just cut the humiliating tension with my diminishing pride.

To make things worst, some little fucker started booing in the audience and soon, it escalated into a snowball effect and in five seconds, the entire school was booing at me. All I could remember was, "I need to get off the stage!"

It was mortifying.

2) I remembered going to Geylang Market with Star one day and she suddenly had a craving for goreng pisang (fried banana fritters). Star is a big goreng pisang fan and could literally eat fifty at one go. But the thing is, there are many different types of names for different bananas. And I have made the effort to teach her the more popular ones like tanduk, kepok, emas, monyet and what have you but she has made zero effort to remember any of these names; she just points.

So on that particular day, upon arriving at the goreng pisang stall, she started her usual pointing game. But this time, it was different.

"Cik, give me the long one $3, the short one $3, the one that already cut, yeah that one, the long one that you cut, you give me $3. Cik this one is hard kind or soft on the inside?"

The uncle laughed and I didn't walk in front of that shop for two years.

3) We were at the Ritz this one time celebrating Melanie's birthday, just the four of us because Melanie had wanted something intimate for her birthday. After 5 bottles of champagne, the four of us were really tipsy and was basically having a great time.

Melanie had left her blusher in the toilet and had forgotten all about it. As I was returning the blusher back to her, she suddenly had tis crazy idea of putting makeup on my face, the whole shebang; falsies, lipstick, eye-shadow, blusher drag queen style.

And I said okay, what's the worst that could happen right? An hour later, the three of them were snapping away on their phones; subject, me. The very next day, I asked them to transfer a couple of those pictures to me and I kept it in my laptop for sheer amusement. And then I totally forgotten all about it.

Until one day when my mum's laptop broke down.

She borrowed my Macbook to watch some serial on YouTube and lo and behold, she saw those incriminating pictures. I'll spare you the mini meltdown both mother and son had, but she did asked me if I was a drag queen leading a double life and whether I had started taking female hormones yet, and if I did, I should stop.

I wanted to take rat's poison at that point of time.

A Vibrating Issue

Have I told you that my mum found a vibrator in Harold's room yesterday? Yes you read that right.

My mum, God bless her poor worrying soul, found a vibrator in Harold's room. Of course the vibrator wasn't his but come on, any mother would flip out if they found a vibrator in their son's room.

It was for Alice, his primary school friend. Harold and his group of friends decided to buy something wacky for Alice as an engagement gift. So all of them bought for her a really nice vibrator (apparently it is in built with four different massaging styles) and Harold was to keep until her engagement next weekend.

What was hilarious wasn't the act of finding out about the vibrator but the way my mum approached the "discovery".

We were having dinner yesterday at home and midway through dinner, my mum asked Harold, "Do you have anything to confess to me?"

Harold scrunched up his face, shook his head and muttered a curt, "No".

"Are you sure?" my mum probed further.

"Why did you found out something?" Harold asked back.

"Maybe," my mum answered.

"What..." harold sighed.

"Are you gay?" my mum abruptly said.

I chocked on my rice and broke into a giggle fit.

"No!" Harold shouted.

"Then why do you have a vibrator in your room?!" my mum shouted back, putting the vibrator on the dinner table. She apparently had it taped underneath our dinner table and wanted to present it to my brother. Oh I know my mother too well.

"It's not mine! It's for Alice!" Harold said.

"Don't lie! If you're gay just say it, don't lie to me I'm your mother!" my mum dramatically cried.

By this time I had already excused myself from the table and was listening to all the action and drama from the kitchen.

"Do you want to talk to Sean? he will explain to you since you don't believe me!" Harold cried.

"Is Sean (Harold's best friend) your boyfriend? Be honest! He is a great kid I don't mind...," my mum kept badgering on.

"Mum! Stop!" Harold shouted.

I actually laughed so hard in the kitchen my mum screamed from the dining table, "Harry it's not funny! Stop!"

After showing my mum the messages inside the group chat containing evidence of them discussing about buying the vibrator then my mum relented. But not before saying something ridiculously epic, like how she is.

"For a moment I thought it really was yours. You scared me. I actually told Aunt Meg about it."

Cue blood curling "What!!" Harold style.

What's My Name?

They say god divides. If he makes you all pretty and gorgeous, he makes you stupid. I think that's just a sick joke on the Almighty's part but I definitely suffer from that unfunny division.

See, I'm a social butterfly. I would like to think that if you were to put me in a room full of strangers, two minutes into it is all I'm going to take before I make friends with everyone in that very room.

Melanie says that I'm the biggest social butterfly that she has ever known and that Mariah Carey wouldn't think twice about putting me on her charm bracelet.

But the biggest joke of it all is that even though I am one of the most friendly dude around, I am as bad when it comes to remembering names. And that my dear readers, it is the worst combination, ever. I would be so busy making new friends and forgetting their poor names the very next day.

Fact of the matter is, I remember faces, not names.

There have been many occasions where I would sit, all by myself in a cafe, or just walking around Orchard Road and someone would approach me with an affirmative, "Hey Harry! Nice bumping into you! Remember me?"

This would be followed by a short look of confusion, a feeble fake smile and a resounding, "Of course!"

Look I know it's bad enough that my memory fails me all the damn time but I spent almost a quarter of my life training to be an actor so if I can fake the hell out of it, why not?

Yesterday however, was an exception.

I was accompanying Star on her lunch break and halfway, a random dude came over to my table and said, "Hey Harry! Remember me?!"

"Heyyy...Of course I remember you..." my voice trailed off, hoping that it wouldn't betray my fear because honestly, I have no fucking clue what his name was.

"I'll get back to you, let me go grab a cup of coffee," the dude said.

"Sure! Sure! Please do!" I said, sounding slightly excited.

He left the table.

"Who is he?" I asked Star.

"Am I walking database?" Star said, eating her salad.

"Fuck...I know he was my army mate but what's his name? Star help!" I pleaded.

"You should listen to yourself speak right now. It's hilarious. I went to the army with you is it?!" Star mockingly chided me.

"Let's get out of here. I can't remember his name," I urgently said.

"I'm not done with my salad, don't be an asshole," Star stared at me.

Nameless army mate is walking towards me and all I could think of was how screwed I am.

"How have you been?" he asked earnestly.

"I've been good, yourself?" I asked back out of courtesy. Deep inside I actually didn't give a shit.

"Yeah, I'm getting married next month," he smiled.

Star raised her eyebrows.

"Oh. That's nice!" I said, faking my way through the ordeal.

"You don't remember my name do you?" he suddenly asked.

"I do, I just...I forgot your name," I said, ashamed.

"Harry, we share the same name, how can you possibly forget that?"

Star choked on her Caesar salad and I well, let's not even go there.

25 Reasons To Not Celebrate Valentine's Day

As a point of reference for 2014.

1) You might have a pollen allergy that you don't know off.

2) Are you a Muslim? Don't even think about it.

3) Inflation of roses. And every other flower there is. (You can try picking flowers at the Botanic Gardens, albeit being crazily risky)

4) Whatever you do, you will never be as romantic as Ryan Gosling.

5) Because it is overrated and you're a fucking hipster.

6) What love song are you going to dedicate to your girlfriend? Boyfriend by Justin Beiber? Don't send the wrong message.

7) It's going to be a weekday.

8) You cannot do a nice romantic home cooked dinner because the last time you tried to fry an egg...let's not even go there.

9) I don't think you would be interested in having a romantic dinner in a crowded restaurant would you?

10) Giving a bouquet of roses doesn't mean you will get laid at the end of the night. Sorry buddy.

11) And what if she's on a no chocolate diet?

12) You don't have a girlfriend to start with.

13) Your Ah Lian girlfriend won't understand the love poem you wrote for her anyways.

14) They're still playing Chinese New Year jingles in shopping centres. Talk about an overkill.

15) It's the middle of the month = no more money.

16) Remember about the poem? Sorry I forgot that you can't write poems. You cannot even write a simple description of yourself in Facebook.

17) Somebody will be late. And you literally, haven't got all day.

18) At this point of time the only "romantic comedy" movie there is, is your life. And not in a good way either.

19) It's Valentines and you're wearing your granny panties.

20) You made a vow that you would never celebrate Valentine's Day until Jennifer Aniston gets married (read: You'll never celebrating it)

21) Your boyfriend is bad in bed so you're not missing out on anything really.

22) Food is always better than sex no matter how much you deny it.

23) You're better off going through a DVD marathon of romantic comedies. At least they have happy endings.

24) The Romance Singapore campaign ended years ago.

25) You're single. Haha.

25 Ways To Come Out To Your Parents

Here at A Son Of A Peach, we never do things the conventional way. So instead of going to your parents and telling them "Mum, Dad, I'm gay", here are 25 other exciting ways to come out to your parents! Gay boys, take note.

1) "Mum, Dad, I am an anal astronaut."

2) "Mum, Dad, I am the biggest Britney Spears fan." *for added effect, tell them this while wearing your Toxic turquoise blue stewardess uniform you wore for Halloween last year.

3) At every dinner, instead of putting pepper and salt to your baked potatoes, add glitter instead while saying, "I need more glitter in my life."

4) Make it a point to watch with them Queer As Folk every single evening for twoo weeks before the big announcement. Trust me, it will take the sting off a bit. For them, not for you.

5) Whatsapp them a picture of your boyfriend and yourself stuffing $5 notes in a go-go boy's underwear in a strip club.

6) At the dinner table, ask your mum abruptly, "How would you like a son-in-law instead?"

7) Play charades with them. You shrieking and screaming all over the place is enough to make them understand.

8) And don't forget to do your Beyonce's impression.

9) "Mum, Dad, I like to take it up the ass."

10) On either one of your parent's birthday, the cake must read: "Happy 50th! P/S: I'm Gay."

11) Make a sudden career change to be a flight steward. Budget also nevermind.

12) Start addressing your mum as "Gurrrrl..."

13) Quote any of Lady Gaga's song lyrics in everyday conversations with them.

14) "Mum, Dad, in your time I would be that boy who knows the lyrics to every song in Funny Girl and thinks he is Barbara Streisand."

15) "Mum, Dad, I'm gay." : Boring.
      "Mum, Dad, I'm gay * sings a show tunes number" : Fabulous.

16) Leave a trail of rainbow coloured frosted cupcakes outside your parent's room where it will end in the kitchen and there is a note that says, "Now that you have enough rainbows to light up your life, here is a little storm for added justification: I am gay."

17) Paste a Post-it on your father's Blackberry charger with the note: I love to BBM, I love to Bare Back Michael.

18) Cut yourself up and write "I am Gay" on a drawing block with the blood and paste it in the living room cause you know, you're dramatic like that.

19) "Mum, Dad, I'm your long lost daughter."

20) Find a picture of Madonna and a picture of you in drag as Madonna. Scan, put it side by side, upload on FB, tag your parents.

21) Have a coming out party. Duh.

22) On your mum's birthday, present to her a pair of gorgeous heels. On the birthday card, write "I want you to know how it feels like to walk in my shoes."

23) "Mum, Dad, I am Dora the Assplorer."

24) Make them watch Prayers For Bobby and threaten them that you're going to jump off a bridge in front of an 18 wheeler too if they don't accept you for who you are.

25) Jump off a bridge in front of an 18 wheeler.

I Want A Bag

After 24 years of living, I have come to realize that parents, and mothers especially, have this gift of making their children go into a state of extreme panic and worry with just a simple utterance. My mum is particularly fond of pulling these kind of stunts. And everytime she does it, Harold and me would literally try not to shit in our pants upon hearing to what she has to say.

Yesterday was no exception.

I was updating my Twitter when she came into my room, took my phone away from me and said, "I want a Loewe Amazona."

"What?" I asked, completely caught off guard and confused.

"I want a Loewe Amazona. In Nero," my mum reiterated.

"Why?" I asked, scrunching up my face.

"I don't have any branded bags to carry at my colleague's wedding this Saturday. So I thought now would be a good time to get one," my mum replied calmly.

"You don't have any branded bags? Really?" I asked sarcastically.

"Really," she replied, face deadpan.

"Let's run through your closet and the bags inside together shall we? You have the Mini Luggage from Celine, the Paraty from Chloe, the Sofia from Ferragamo, the Muse 2 from YSL, the Speedy from LV, the D Bag from Tods, the Knot clutch from Bottega, a couple of Guccis and you are telling me that you have no branded bags?" I asked sweetly.

"None from Loewe," she shrugged her shoulders.

At that point of time I could feel my heart racing and I really wanted to shit. I knew what she meant. She didn't even have to verbalize it. The moment she said, "I want a Loewe Amazona", I knew it actually meant, "I want YOU to get for ME a Loewe Amazona".

"You wat me to get for you the Amazona don't you?" I asked, voice slow and steady to mask my increasing panic.

My mum just smiled.

"That bag costs 3000 dollars. I don't have the money," I said through gritted teeth.

"That's what you said the last time and you still bought for me those bags..." she dramatically trailed off.

"This time I really don't have any," I took a stand (a weak one).

"Don't lie Harry. I saw the amount in your bank account from your bank book and you clearly have enough money to bur for me five Amazonas and still go on a three month trip all over Europe and then still have enough cash to buy yourself a car and a Cartier watch," she said, raising her eyebrows.

"You went through my bankbook?!" I raised my voice.

"I raised you up and washed your underwear, I can go through anything of yours without your permission," my mum calmly said.

"How come you never ask Harold?" I asked, frustrated.

"Don't be silly. Harold is still in university. He doesn't have money, he needs it," my mum said.

"This is bullying," I said, shaking my head.

My mum pursed her lips and gave a facial expression that was a mix of mock sympathy and gloat.

I am going to get ready now to go get her Amazona in Nero with gold accents. I plan on telling the staff that I am getting a bag for my professional emotional blackmailing mother.

Oh like she would feel an ounce of remorse. This is my mother we are talking about and it's not her three grand.

Chocolate Bearing Roy(ce)

There is no greater validation in a girl's existence much like a compliment of the physical kind. A simple "You look pretty today" is the greatest stamp of success for a girl; all those hours and money spent to make themselves look beautiful has finally, finally paid off.

In fact there is an urban legend that the words "You look pretty today" can soothe even a pre menstruating girl.

Hah, kidding. I'm just fucking with you. There is nothing you can do to soothe a pre menstruating bitch in heat. We all know that.

Where was I? Yes, validation and compliments. See the reason I'm writing this post because there seems to be a shift in balance in Melanie's life. We all know the adage, "Too much of anything is not good, even the good things." So what happens when you get too much of validation and compliments? What if that adoration from someone turns into an obsession? And the person receiving it is at a constant state of worry, panic and fear?

That's right peaches. Melanie, my dear tranny Melanie, has a stalker. Legit. And it's a butch who frequents her salon, one of her regular customers actually.

"I am terrified guys," Melanie shared yesterday during dinner.

"Why? Isn't it awesome to have a stalker? I think it's cute. I've never had anybody stalk me before, even when I asked them to," Star said, flipping her hair.

"I wouldn't say that if I were you," Steve laughed.

"So I've been cutting her...his hair for the past two years and she...he always brings me chocolates and stuff and I knew this butch likes me but I never once talked about it with her. But lately things are getting a tad, if not very, very creepy. Two weeks ago I received this from my colleague," Melanie explained, taking out a folded A3 sized card from her bag.

Steve took the card, opened it and went,  "No fucking way in lesbian hell, oh my fucking god."

Inside the card is a collage of over twenty pictures of Melanie. but that's not the creepy part. those pictures were printed from Melanie's Facebook account. That means the stalker actually stalked Melanie's profile and printed all of the pictures from there. On the card it read, "To the most beautiful girl in the world."

"That's what happens when you don't make your profile private," I said, scanning the card. It smelled of lemon citrus and vanilla.

"Aww, I think that's adorable!" Star exclaimed, taking the card away from me.

Melanie pinched Star's left arm and Star scowled loudly.

"For the past two weeks, every single day after work you can find her...him waiting for me outside with a small gift in hand. Ferrero Rocher chocolates, Garrett's Popcorn, Famous Amos cookies, anything. When I asked her, her name is Roy by the way, how come she has the time to wait for me everyday she says she rushes from work everyday just to meet me. I know right?" Melanie said, a worried look on her face.

"Roy. That's so masculine than I can ever be in my entire life and I'm straight acting," Steve laughed.

"It's not funny! I already warned my colleagues to NOT give this Roy my email and god forbid, home address! She has my namecard from work and unfortunately my mobile is printed on that and she wouldn't stop texting me. Like twenty messages in a day," Melanie exhaled tiredly.

"That's freaky," I said.

"What does Roy want form you anyways?" Star asked.

"She says she wants to get to know me better. Date me out. But I don't wish to. At. All," Melanie answered.

"So why don't you? I would give it a chance if I were you," Star pursed her lips.

"I am a man to woman transexual and you want me to date a butch who in actual fact is a man trapped in a woman's body. What kind of sick fucked up gender dysphoria shit you think I am into?" Melanie replied angrily.

Begone Crow's Feet

Plastic surgery really is a personal choice, that much I can vouch for. No amount of insecurity or pressure can drive anyone to go through it but the person itself. And the person in question here is Star. Well she didn't really go under the knife considering that Botox is a non-invasive surgery.

Yes, Botox. Star, at a grand old age of twenty-four decided that Botox was the only solution to win the battle between herself and her deepening crows feet. That and she has 700 bucks to blow.

Naturally I was against it. I am all for plastic surgery don't get me wrong. But I just find the idea of a twenty-four year old woman getting a Botox injection absolutely ridiculous. What kind of low self-esteem is Star suffering from? Judging from her track record with men, she is hardly the kind of woman who needs to go under the knife to make herself more defensive.

And please do note that this is the same woman who spends over five hundred dollars every two months on her La Mer skincare products. All Star needs to do is wear a bandage dress and her fuckability factor goes into the stratosphere. And yet, she is adamant about getting Botox.

"I mean I can well afford it. And I can remain twenty four for the next six months so why not? There's no harm trying. If I don't like it, I won't do it again. Simple," Star reasoned with Steve, Melanie and I two weeks ago, five days before going for the procedure.

"That's what Joan Rivers said forty years ago and look at her," Steve said.

"But Joan Rivers is fucking fabulous," I chirped in.

Steve nodded.

"Oh Joan Rivers and Melanie can do it but I can't?" Star raised her voice defensively.

"Because Joan Rivers is a legend and Melanie is a tranny who needs Botox to soften her naturally mannish face," I explained.

"Hello, I'm still here," Melanie suddenly spoke, eyes finally peeled away from her Blackberry.

"And you would be expressionless for an entire day and wouldn't be able to blow off the candles of a birthday cake. That would be sad, really sad," Steve continued, not missing a beat.

"What the fuck was that for?" Star shook her head, confused.

"I do not have a naturally mannish face, fuck you!" Melanie said, hitting my right arm.

And that was that.

And because we are all the pillar of strength for each other, all three of us decided to accompany Star for her maiden Botox procedure at this private clinic in Tanjong Pagar. Support yes, but also to laugh at her afterwards like what real friends do.

When she exited the doctor's room, all three of us stood up and crowded over her like concerned mothers.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, holding her arm.

Star just nodded.

"Star, they injected your temples, not your mouth," Melanie rolled her eyes.

I laughed out loud.

"Shut up," Star said softly.

"Do you feel fabulous now baby?" I teased.

"I can't see the difference to be honest," Steve absentmindedly explained.

"Can you try to wink at me?" I goaded her.

Steve and Melanie laughed so hard a nurse came over and told us to keep air volume down.

Three days after that the four of us met again for dinner, for the first time since Star went for her procedure. Star looks the same really, just a tad more refreshed. The crow's feet was gone completely and her face did look tighter and more luminous. Star was really happy with the result of her maiden Botox procedure and told us that it really boosted her confidence.

"And also the shine on her face but don't tell her I said that," Steve texted me that night.

Doomsday Cheese Crackers

And so the world did not end on the 21st of December 2012 as famously predicted by the Mayans. For the past couple of years, the entire world was busy churning up theories and predictions as to what is going to happen come December 21st. Many (millions actually) suddenly got scared and started anticipating in fear, which if you ask me is stupidly humane.

I mean here we are, getting all terrified about the pending doomsday by taking what the Mayans predicted ages ago. The Mayans were human beings, not gods. Human beings are incapable of even exercising peace amongst themselves, let alone predicting the future.

And then there are those who go to the media and talk about how the signs of doomsday is already here. Why wait all these while before slowly picking out the signs? I think the first sign that the world was going to end was when Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian bought a handheld camcorder. Where were the Mayans then?

Let's also not forget those fools who were out to buy truckloads of food supplies and sustenance for the coming apocalypse. What were they thinking? That what, come doomsday, the world would obliterate into nothingness and only their family and themselves would be left in the basement of their home munching on Ritz Cheese Crackers? And until when?

And even if they can survive on Ritz Cheese Crackers all their life (I can), they are going to be alone in this world, and literally too. These thoughts weren't whirling inside their head while queuing at the check out counter?

The day before the supposed doomsday, Star, Mel, Steve and myself were at Starbucks discussing about the last thing we would want to do before the world ends. Neither of us actually believed that the world was going to end the day after but it makes sense and its fun to discriminate and judge each other based on their last wishes. That's what friends do.

The last thing I would want to do before the world ends is to go to my mum's place and ask for forgiveness," Melanie started the ball rolling.

"So emotional?" Steve asked.

"I want my mum to feel my breasts and know how much hard work is being put to produce these babies," Melanie said, touching her man made inflated chest.

"Melanie stop touching yourself in public, people will call the cops," I scolded her.

"Steve what about you?" Melanie asked.

"I just want to spend and have a good dinner with both of parents," Steve said smiling.

"Since when did the two of you become sentimental. It doesn't suit you both," Star replied, running her fingers through her hair.

"Harry? And please don't say something boring and predictable," Star continued.

"But my life is boring and predictable. Oh I don't know, maybe just sit at home and watch DVDs until my entire house crumbled upon me?" I answered.

"Seriously? DVDs? Until the world ends?" Star retorted.

"It beats having my mum touch my chest or having dinner with her, god forbid," I tried to justify.

There was an awkward silence on the table. So apparently my life is not only boring and predictable; it is pathetic too.

"You guys deserve to die with those believers. Because I want to have an orgy with five different men at one time right before the world ends," Star shared.

"We are talking about something that we have never done before Star," I smiled.

Hiak-dush.

Prayers For Bobby

I am possibly the last person on the face of the earth that has not watched the Emmy nominated Lifetime movie Prayers For Bobby. Well I was, until yesterday. And it totally changed my life.

Steve got back early yesterday from work and he had no plans after that so we stayed at home and ordered pizza. I wasn't ready to be assaulted with another viewing of Burlesque and thankfully, so was Steve. So there we were, three large pizzas (pepperoni, meat lovers and spicy chicken) in front of us, a large bottle of coke, chips and we have nothing to watch. We stared at each other.

"Come on Steve, make a decision on what movie to watch," I said, munching on Lays sour cream and onion chips.

"I'm a bad decision maker," Steve replied flatly.

"We've watched your entire DVD collection. Let's go on YouTube and see what five movies are there to watch," I suggested.

"That's so middle class, always up for a free movie," Steve mocked jokingly.

"You got a better higher upper class suggestion?"

"Fine!" Steve rolled his eyes and switched on his Macbook and attached a cable from the Macbook to this gigantic flat screen HD television.

"Okay now what?" Steve said after logging in on YouTube.

"Hmm, let's work something sad, I'm in the mood for it," I recommended.

"Please don't cry and wipe your middle class tears on my Lanvin pillowcase," Steve laughed.

"That's like asking Steve to fly economy. Highly impossible. I WILL cry. And I WILL wipe my middle class tears on your Lanvin pillowcase, unfortunately. If it is a really sad movie, mucous included," I curtly replied.

Steve suggested that we watch Prayers For Bobby because one of his friends recommended the movie to him a couple of years ago but he never got around to watching the film because, oh I don't know, he was probably busy watching Miss Aguilera howling in her underwear all these while. I immediately agreed because I too have been busy (doing what I can't think of) and have never gotten the opportunity to watch it.

And thankfully for us, Prayers For Bobby is in youTube, in HD no less.

FOr those of you readers who have not watched it, I urge you to. I think it is one of the defining movies one can experience in his/her lifetime. Prayers For Bobby is a story about Mary Griffith, a staunch and devout Christian whose son Bobby, is gay. She tries to change him and in turn he became depressed and jumped off a bridge and got hit by an 18 wheeler truck and died instantly. The movie also shows how Mary came to terms with her son's homosexuality and thus came the famous quote, "I now know why God didn't heal Bobby. It is because...there was nothing wrong with him!"

Let's just put it out there. I am a wuss. The biggest kind there is. I think all of you definitely knows that face. I mean, I've possibly seen the worst sappy movies and when I think there is no more tears left in my eye ducts, they wring it all out of my eyes.

When Prayers For Bobby was at the final scene, and Sigourney Weaver, who played Mary was in a court and breaking down and talking about her lack of understanding of the LGBT community and how her ignorance caused her son's death, Steve turned to me and screamed, "Shut up! You're wheezing it's fucking irritating!"

I really couldn't help it. And yes, just for asking me to shut up, I did what he has always hated me doing; I wiped my tears on his Lanvin pillowcase, mucous included.

Shampoo Boy

Having a friend who is also a hairdresser means that you get to save a great deal of money on hair cutting. Trust and a sense of sensitivity also play a part; you don't want to anger your best friend and have him or her fuck up your hair and making you look like a calefare from The Flintstones. I must also add that Melanie gives the best head massages and stop it, I meant my real head that's connected to my neck.

Sometimes when I have a headache or my head is throbbing because I couldn't sleep the night before, I would just pop by Melanie's salon for a wash and blow. I don't even need an immediate haircut. I just need her magic fingers to massage my head and everything would go away. Sometimes without any self-restraint going on, I would burp in the middle of the head massage because she massages a certain nerve.

"Shut up! You disgusting pig. I'm just giving you head and it's only starting to froth a little, I have not even started the blowing yet and you've already started burping," Melanie would teasingly scold.

Oh come on, her job presented itself with puns after puns.

"People are staring," I would always reply.

The only thing I dislike about going to have my frequent (sometimes free) head massage and haircut at Melanie's salon is that she likes to set me up with her regular customers who happen to be in the salon at the same time. I find that weirdly distracting and let's face it, highly embarrassing.

Here, you have your best friend foaming up your hair with shampoo and you're having a time of your life, for that little ten minutes and then suddenly she pulls your hair and goes, "Harry, that's the dude I was telling you about. He just broke up with his boyfriend, shall I hook you both up?"

Most of the times I would yell and scream, "Fuck, that hurts!" and sometimes, when my threshold for pain is a lot higher for that day, I would just roll my eyes and say, "Since he is such a catch, why don't you have him instead? And massage my hair properly bitch thanks."

And god knows how long these random dudes actually spend inside a salon, primping and texturing and layering and colouring and treatment and then actual haircut and then another wash and blow and by the time they make the payment, I would have finished two Bollywood movies back to back. 

But Melanie being Melanie, she would work her way through to get me to stay in her salon, sometimes for an entire shift. She's lucky I am a writer in profession and I work from home because honestly, nobody has time for that kind of shit. And out of respect, as I would always tell her, please stop trying to matchmake me with her frequent customers.

Melanie wouldn't have any of it. Yesterday during one of those random hair massages that I went for in her salon, she did it again. This time it was the new shampoo boy.

"Harry, meet Neil. He is our new shampoo boy and he is studying psychology part time," Melanie smiled sheepishly, like she is the one being matched made.

"Hello," I politely said to Neil. The boy just nodded his head, his face red. 

Welcome to the world of Melanie Matchmaking.

"Neil, you can shampoo Harry's hair first," Melanie said winking (I know, like a fucking pimp).

"No, it's okay I much prefer Melanie to shampoo my hair...right Melanie?" I said, smiling through gritted teeth.

"I'm...b"

"The shop is empty, don't give me that bullcrap, I am not letting a random dude shampoo my hair just because it amuses you to see me getting uncomfortably hooked up with random shampoo dudes Mel! You shampoo my hair right this instant or I am never coming back!" I whispered harshly at Melanie.

Melanie rolled her eyes and said, "At this rate, you will never get laid."

"I will get laid, when you're trying to wash the shampoo of my hair later," I replied curtly.

Labels And Slangs

I am the last person you should ask for to rectify a certain slang, code name, abbreviation and more often than not, a stereotypical and damaging label. I was the last boy in school to know what is the real meaning of MILF. I was already seventeen. A shame much more deeper than being caught naked in the boys changing room listening to Samantha Mumba on loudspeaker.

The boys kept talking about it for a good portion of my secondary school life and I thought they were just making fun of people with a lisp who cannot pronounce milk properly. I was seventeen when my curiosity got the better of me and I typed out the word "MILF" on google. I will never forget that day. A week after that I would also find out the meaning of DILF and GILF (let's not even go there).

So naturally in conversations, you would mostly find me asking, "Wait, what does that mean?" And yesterday was no exception. The usual four (Steve, Melanie, Star and I) were out for lunch and listening to Melanie's seemingly endless stories about her customers. Apparently you tend to share a lot more problems with your hairdresser than your own spouse, or psychiatrist for that matter, judging from the loopy confessions and conversations that Melanie's customers share with her while getting their hair done.

"I'm telling you guys, relationship nowadays, be it straight ones or gay ones are all filled and plagues with the same problems. I have this customer, this cute British expat who is a total rice queen, always comes in with one problem or the other and all involving his various boyfriends. i lost count as to how many infidelity stories he has shared with me over these past few months," Melanie shared.

"Wait, what does the mean?" I asked, naturally.

"What?" Melanie asked back.

"Rice..something," I muttered.

"Oh rice queen! That's a term used to describe a Caucasian man who likes and goes after Asian boys. You mean you don't know?" Melanie laughed.

"If I knew, I wouldn't ask," I rolled my eyes.

"It's a gay slang and I'm surprised Steve and you never talk about this," Melanie said, looking at Steve who in turn dropped his jaws dramatically.

"Steve and I talk about other things that does not necessarily revolve around Caucasian men who lusts after Asian men. But why "Rice Queen", since we're at it," I asked.

"Because the staple food of most Asians is rice. And any self respecting gay man is a queen," Melanie shrugged.

"What if the Asian dude is on a no carb diet?" I asked again.

Steve snorted and broke out in a soft giggle.

"What?" Melanie shook her head.

"What if the Asian dude is on a no carb diet? Does that still make the white dude a "Rice Queen"? As if being homosexual itself and its many degrading and alienating tags and slangs is not enough, now it needs to get racial too?" I said.

There was an awkward silence at the lunch table.

"Relax, I am just asking. You didn't invent the slang so why the awkward silence?" I laughed.

"Rice queen has got a nice ring to it I must say. Imagine if it's something else. Like "Kway Teow Princess" or "Bee Hoon Duchess", how?" Star suddenly quipped.

I am thankful for friends like STar. And Bee Hoon Duchess is so going to be my new Skype nickname.

Bungalow Dreams

The day has finally arrived. Tomorrow onwards, my house is going to be in shambles and rebuilt again with a quarter of my mum's life savings all in over a month. My mum is going to Aunt Sally's place, Harold will be putting up at his best friend's (Sean, his cocksucking buddy as I would always tease him) extra guest bedroom and yes, I have decided to stay over at Steve's nearly vacant bungalow. I actually told my mum that I intend to take out the thrash every morning into the porch and pretend that I am the new owner of the gigantic bungalow.

"Rich people don't take out the thrash every morning. That's why they have maids. Forget it, you can never be a rich person. You're too middle class in soul Harry," was my mum's reply.

Shit, I hate it when she's right.

So the entire morning I was busy packing my entire wardrobe into eight different duffel bags and luggages. But that was only three quarters of the entire wardrobe. So I had to unpack everything and re-pack the clothes that I would probably want to hear. Harold walked past by my room this morning and stopped in his tracks.

"What the hell is this? You're only going to stay over Steve's place for a month, you're not migrating for good," Harold said.

"Well unlike you I have to bring a lot more clothes than you probably would because I change my clothes everyday, cause you know... I bathe," I replied sarcastically.

He kicked the pile of clothes at the door and scurried off.

"Asshole!" I shouted from inside the room.

I was the last person to leave the house because I had to be home when the packers come to pack our cutleries and plates and stuff. The rest of the household items are going to be packed and donated to an orphanage that my mum used to volunteer at a couple of years ago. Yes, you read that right. Everything currently in my house is going to be given away as charity. The newly renovated house would be furnished with everything new; new beds, wardrobes, sofa, dining table, sound system, lamps etc. My mum takes the adage "charity starts at home" rather literally.

She is also not present when the packers are doing their job simply because she is a mild hoarder and I am not going to pull away a hysterical woman away from her collection of fridge magnets. I don't have the time for that. Or the strength.

Everything ended at around six in the afternoon just now and as I locked the door, I felt a sense of excitement and nervousness. Excited to see what my new house would turn out to be and nervous, because it is going to be one month with Steve, just the two of us (five, if you count the maids) in a big bungalow. I hope I don't get lost in there on the first night trying to navigate my way back to my room.

When I arrived at Steven's place this evening, he was amused that I unloaded eight bags out of the maxi cab.

"Hello Miss Kardashian," he laughed as he opened his gate (see? rich people open their own gates!) to welcome me in.

We took all of my bags into my room upstairs that he has graciously allowed me to bunk in for a month and the room...is nothing short of amazing. I just can't bring myself to describe it.

"Oh don't worry. There is Wifi in the house, I'll give you the password later. And if you feel like eating anything, anything, just tell Bibik okay? She is a fantastic cook. (I wanted to ask which Bibik but I have a month to figure that one out) Yeah so everything that is in the house, is on the house. Oh and I need you downstairs after you've unpacked everything. I've downloaded the latest season of Modern Family. let's watch it together alright? And oh, remember to close the windows at night when you sleep?"

"Why?" I asked suspiciously. I looked outside of the window. Trees. Nothing but trees. I swallowed my saliva. I'm a wuss. There, I said it.

"Oh you know, things might come in at night," Steve said.

"What things?!" I asked, voice slightly shaking.

"You know, bats?" he replied.

I didn't know whether he was joking or serious so I just nodded. That was forty five minutes ago. I have finished unpacking my clothes and am typing this right now on my laptop, feet resting on the faux lamb wool carpet below me. Star just messaged me:

"How's the first night at your husband's place? And don't tell me Harry, he has liked you for the longest time, everybody knows that. <3 Have fun and don't get raped! Oh do you know that Melanie told me once that the same room you're going to be staying in is haunted? Have fun!"

Fucking bitch.

To The Beat

"Oh dear, Rihanna spent Thanksgiving with Chris Brown. Does that mean that they are back together again?" Star said yesterday during dinner, scrolling intently on her Samsung Note 2.

"Why do you spend so much time on those rubbish celebrity gossip blogs?" Melanie complained, mouth full of sushi.

"What do you want me to read about? Articles on sexual dysphoria?" Star snarled.

"It's a tricky thing isn't it? Abusive relationships?" Steven opened the topic and put a sashimi in his mouth.

I am always amazed at people who eat raw living things. If not for the fact that they sell cooked deep fried options, I would never set foot in a Japanese restaurant. Star says it is stupid of me to not even try and eat sashimi. She says it is like shopping at Victoria Secret's and not trying on the Wonderbra at least once. "You are missing out on a lot of things," she always says.

"I have no tits, I'm not missing out on a lot," would be my reply.

"Oh this is interesting! Chris Brown is apparently going to have a concert in Brussels and you know what Rihanna fans did to the giant Chris Brown concert poster. They blew up the infamous picture of Rihanna all bruised and battered and plastered it over his poster," Star continued.

"That doesn't mean anything. Because at the end of the day, she is still with him. That's a biggest "Fuck you all" to her fans," I said.

"Why is she even back with him? A man who lays his hands on a woman should never be given a second chance," Melanie spat.

"Like I said, abusive relationships are tricky. 99 percent of women who are still continuing in an abusive relationship sees beyond the physical attacks. It is more emotional and psychological than you think," Steven shared.

"In Rihanna's case, love, literally heals all wounds," I joked.

Melanie wasn't too amused.

"Any guy who wants to lay his hands on me, it should only be on my ass cheeks," Star shrugged.

"Has it always got got be about sex with you Star?" Steven asked.

"Yes," Star replied sharply.

"If a guy lay his hands on me, I will beat the crap out of that motherfucker," Melanie said. And I believe her. Once in a drunken stupor, she got into a fist fight with this dude in a club at last year's new years party who was twice her size. And he fell on the ground. Melanie was wearing a ring with a metal rose head and the guy's nose bled. I believe that was Melvin at work. Melanie is like a tranny version of Jekyll and Hyde.

But the topic didn't just ended there. Star had another theory as to why Rihanna was beaten up in the first place.

"You know how there are some girls who become fucking annoying when they fight with their boyfriends? You know? Those "Slap me lah! Slap! Show me! I want to see you slap me! Come on! Why you just standing there? Scared? No guts is it? You're not a man! Slap me lah! Slap!" Those kinda girls," Star animatedly acted out.

The whole restaurant looked at our table. Steven had covered his face with his palms over his forehead and Melanie was pretending to look at her phone and I was the only person left on the table actually paying attention to whatever she just said.

"All I'm saying is, she must have a part to play in it. Furthermore she has a naturally high pitched annoying voice tone, even I would be compelled to slap the living crap out of her Bajan face," Star finished.

Steven texted me that very same night after the dinner asking me whether Star was ever in an abusive relationship, considering how lightly she sees the issue. Spanking doesn't count as an abusive relationship right?

Son Of A Tycoon

Earlier on in the day, Steven texted Star, Melanie and me asking us if we were free for brunch. Steven's idea of brunch is wearing something chic and slightly fancy, at a five star hotel. And my idea of brunch is wearing my pyjamas and whipping up a hearty homemade Aglio Olio. He sent a mass text message, "Brunch, 12 sharp? I've got something really important to share. I'll pick you guys up and brunch is on me. Please?"

Star: Are you getting a sex change too? Alright pick me up at 1130. Usual place. Wait, does this mean that I have to wear something fancy? Urgh, I have yet to shower!
Melanie: Free brunch with Stevieboy? I'm in. 1145. Usual place.
Me: Since when did Steven become your designated driver girls?
Star: Since he owns a motherfucking Audi. Chao!

Two and a half hours later, the four of us were sitting in a posh nosh restaurant that sells 45 bucks salads, wearing fancy clothes, eating fancy food (raw tuna is shitty). I have no idea why some restaurants have a dress code because in this country, wearing a jacket only means that you are going to be sweating your pits off. If not for the fact that I am being transported from one place to the other in an air-conditioned Audi, I would have said no straightaway. But hey, free meal, free ride, I get to wear something nice and look good once in a while (at least I think I look good); no complaints there.

"Do I look nice in my new dress? I got it from Bebe at a sale!" Star asked, adjusting her shoulder straps.

"It's short. And sparkly. And half of your tits are showing so by standards, yes, you look nice," I replied on behalf of the other two, eyes scanning the menu.

"You are not even looking at me," Star said.

"Your dress is so sparkly I can see the shimmer and glimmer from the reflection on the table from where I am sitting right now," I answered.

"Bitch," Star whispered under her breath.

"I can hear that," I said, glancing up.

She did looked great. She has a fantastic body and isn't afraid of flaunting it. Side swept hair, pearl drop earrings and her favourite YSL tribute sandals completed her look. melanie on the other hand  was looking demure (I know right?) in a knee length peplum (all the rage now!) dress. Steven, sitting on my left looks like he belongs in a Prada advert. My idea of fancy brunch garb is tan brogues, white t-shirt and a plaid jacket. Anything more and I will feel like I am going up on stage to receive an award. The four of us looked like Sex and The City meets Queer Eye For the Straight Guy.

"So what is the important news you wanted to tell us Stevieboy?" Melanie asked.

Steven smiled.

"What is it?" Star asked, raising her eyebrows.

"I invited you all here for brunch because I want to share this piece of news only to the people closest to me. And you guys are the only friends that I am truly close to and I trust with my life," Steven shared.

"Aww, that's too sweet. Now continue!" Melanie blurted midway.

"So! About a week ago my father sat my mother down with me and read us through his will. He is not dying but you know, he decided to get the will drafted and signed just in case. In the will, it says that in his demise, a quarter of his assets, this includes shares, his properties, his businesses and it's accumulative profits bla bla bla will go to charity. Another quarter will go to my mother, not that she needs it, but you know my dad being my dad, every penny needs to be stretched to the last penny, and the remaining half would be under my name. My father rarely talks about money at home, in fact never but a week ago, after 25 years, I finally have an understanding of the magnitude of his wealth and monetary assets. And it is alot. Like...a lot," Steven spoke softly.

"How much are we talking about here? When the old man kicks the bucket, which I don't mean he will, but you know...how much will you be getting?" Star asked, straightforward.

Steven smiled.

"You're killing me! Steven!" Melanie cried.

"About 75 million."

"What the fuck?!" Star screamed.

"Star!" I hushed.

"Oh my god Steven you are literally the real life Tony Stark!" Melanie said excitedly, her fake boobs heaving heavily.

"Mel, his father is not dead yet, don't be deplorable," I said.

"It's fine. And that is actually only the assets as of now. The profits that the restaurants and clubs will keep on making, I have a 25% share in it, until of course there is no one else left to run the business say in another 30, 40 years?" Steven shared.

"So on top of 75 million fucking dollars, you get monetary profits for the next 30, 40 years?" Star asked.

Steven nodded his head.

I gulped. There was a deafening silence. Half an hour ago, Star texted me: Does this mean that you will be a Tai Tai if you hook up with him?

Snake Goddess

Anyone who has an obsession (good or, let's face it, most of the time bad), would understand the kind of euphoria that one would feel when he or she is indulging in it. I want you to imagine Lindsay's face when she sees a stash of crack (allegedly). That, my dear readers is the look of euphoria. I reserve the kind of look when I'm standing in front of a DVD shop that sells Bollywood movies.

Yes, my obsession is Bollywood. And like every other obsession, it has cost me lots of money, time and effort. It has also affected my social and personal life, to be honest.

It all started when I was nine years old, and this was the earliest memory that I have whenever I talk about the start of my Bollywood obsession. As a routine, at every four o'clock in the afternoon, you would find me lying down beside my late grandmother, watching re-runs of old Bollywood movies on television. My late grandmother was a masseuse and she always smelt of massage oil and lavender baby talcum. I can never forget that smell.

So one fine afternoon, as I was lying down beside my late grandmother, sniffing the faint scent of massage oil and lavender baby talcum at every inhale, suddenly the whole house was filled with a mysterious flute music. On the screen was this old Bollywood movie, and the scene on the screen was this evil priest trying to call out a lady who is also the Snake Goddess.

Yes, go ahead, laugh. At nine years old, this was singlehandedly the definitive moment for me and my obsession. The Snake Goddess was embodied beautifully by the inimitable Sridevi (google that shit up), and at that very point in time, I was completely absorbed in Indian Cinema. For years after that, I would be the kind of teenager that saves every single cent of what I have, and head down to Little India and scour the entire stretch of road finding the latest Bollywood movies that just got released on disc. I knew every nook and cranny of the place and I would brave the sun, the rain and the crowd just to get hold of the desired title.

Once acquired, the disc player, if it had a mouth, would be begging to be switched off. I would replay the movie over and over again. Press pause, rewind, replay. Fast forward to the good scenes, fast forward the bad scenes, replay the songs over and over again. And if you must know, yes I am quite proficient in Hindi. This obsession is initially received with much chagrin from my mother. This was only because the living room would be strewn with a mountain of discs covers and for a neat clean freak like my mother, I am better off taking the dumpster and emptying its contents in the living room.

But when I myself have taken her sick, socially awkward standard of cleanliness, she has nothing left to say. Two shelves, filled to the brim, neatly of course, with all the titles that you can think of.

I knew every gossips, every breakup, every hook ups, who is doing what movie, who fell out with who, the whole shebang. My mum always tell my friends that if I spend as much time studying, I would be a doctor by now. She obviously is saying that because then I can prescribe her slimming pills regularly. Melanie shares the same sentiment too. Like three days ago when she visited my place to send a tray of freshly baked brownies.

"Aren't you too old to be obsessed with all of these?" she said, scanning my DVD collection.

"Coming from a person who has her drug dealer on speed dial, that's judgmental, isn't it Mel?" I answered.

"I only take drugs recreationally. And keep your voice down! Your mum might hear," she hushed.

"You indulge in recreational activities on a daily basis Mel. And what makes you think my mum doesn't know?"

"She knows?!" Mel gasped.

Well, truth is, my mum saw the pictures of us on the dance floor in my Facebook while I was browsing and the first thing she said when she saw Melanie was, "Aren't you afraid that there might be a raid and you all will get arrested?"

I kept quiet and she continued, "You don't have to lie or keep anything. I know a crackhead when I see one. I spent my entire youth working as clinic assistant. I can tell the druggies apart from the rest."

"Is that why you also smuggle slimming pills whenever you're at work then?"

I felt a sharp smack of my head. But thank god it's not any of my DVDs.

Two Times A Charm

FIve years ago when my parents got divorced, everyone around me was so concerned about my well-being. I found it thoroughly amusing. My parents got a divorce when I was 19 years old. By then, I don't think anybody around my age would feel any sort of emotional vulnerability or experience any kind of loss whatsoever. I understood that divorce happens for a myriad of reasons. My parents just grew out of the marriage after 20 years. That's normal right?

I had a friend, who upon hearing the news about my parent's divorce, repeatedly asked me, "Oh dear, that is terrible news. Are you okay?" Shouldn't you ask my parents instead? And why wouldn't I be okay? I have potentially two extra weddings to go to in case both of my parents decides to get married again; it's a win-win situation. Oh grow up, people fall in and out of love all the time and at any age, and as long as my parents are happy, I am happy.

As luck would have it, I received a call from my dad yesterday and guess what? My old man is getting married again at a grand age of 45 (my parents are really young by even normal standards and it would be another blog post if I ever try to explain from the very beginning).

"Do I have your permission to get married again for the second time?" my dad asked over the phone.

"Why are you asking me? Aren't you the one getting married?" I answered.

"I just want your consent that is all," he said softly, trying to mask some emotional outburst of some sort.

"You're not marrying one of those Vietnamese brides right?" I joked to lighten things up.

"Haha, no. I have known her for three years, I'll let you guys meet her one day sometime next week, when you and Harold are both free," he said.

"Should I ask along your ex-wife?" I teased again.

"Well if you must know, I have met your mum, with my future wife, two days ago," my dad confessed.

"How progressive. Did mum scratch her eyes out, or did she spit in her coffee?" I laughed.

"Your mum was pretty...nice. She even said she would love to come to the wedding, when it happens," he shared.

"You do know that she is lying right?"

"Yup," was my dad's reply, matter of factly.

"Have you told Harold about this?" I asked again.

"Yesterday. Harold's pretty cool about it. I am lucky to have two understanding and mature sons, you boys never give me any problems," he spoke again softly.

"Stop this trophy dad talk okay? You want to get married, go get married, don't go all telenovela on me aye señor?"

He laughed.

Just then my mum came out of her room. I told my dad that I will call him later and put down the receiver and stared at my mum. She is in a little black dress, hair wash and blown, pearl ear studs, red lips and fake eyelashes on. She looks like Kim Basinger, in a very desperate housewives kind of way.

"What the hell is this?" I asked.

"I am going on a date," my mum said.

"With who? And since when did you own a pair of fake eyelashes?" I asked again.

"With someone," she winked.

"Ew! Why are you suddenly going out on a date? You have never went out with a man the past five years and now this?"

"The question is, why can't I?"

"Oh. My. God. Your ex husband is getting married and so you are trying to validate your worth by finding a man! This is not going to be a race of who gets married first right? Please tell me no, or I would feel I am in some weird French comedy movie," I said.

"You're so dramatic. It is none of those things," she replied.

"It is!" I reaffirmed.

"It is not!" my mum rolled her eyes.

"It so is. Oh my god. I know you!"

As if on cue, my brother went out of his room and stopped in his tracks. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Like what?" my mum asked.

"Like a divorcee trying to get her groove back," he joked.

My mum slammed the door on the way out.