A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages.

It is the morning of first of July in Singapore right now, and in another twenty-four hours, I would have been in New York for a month. Time f*cking flies, and I am being gradually Americanised. Sitting in the library once again, MILF librarian took the day off apparently, and the sun is out today- while walking here, I perspired for the first time ever (work out sessions in the gymnasium notwithstanding).

Fourth of July is this weekend, and after that, business is going to be kind of slow at the club. I have spoken to the manager about it and he has offered me other types of work besides waiting on tables. So, from next week on, I am going to be digging sand pits on greens and more significantly, serving drinks at the pool! Eyeball-f*cking those rather attractive faces at the restaurant every afternoon is one thing, ogling at them in a microkini or monokini is quite another. And you know what? I am going to be given an even better job in the coming weeks (I asked my manager and he said “he’ll think about it”- valet parking! It has always been my lifelong dream to drive a Rolls-Royce Phantom, hearing the roar of the V12 engine as I step on the gas, oh yes, that definitely beats a pool full of naked blonde babes. Because as things stand, bearing a miracle of some sort (i.e. knocking up the daughter of the CEO of some multi-national conglomerate), I would never ever be able to afford a S$1.5million ride in my life. Correct, unlike those of you with delusions of grandeur, I am one who knows his place in society.

Anyway, Woodmere Club just hosted its third (and final) wedding for the summer. I totally enjoy American weddings, even though I have to work like fifteen hours straight each time one of these rich sons of b*tches decide to tie the knot. They will exchange their vows in the club’s garden, and it is not just some simple decoration. These rich f*ckers have the florists flown in like a few thousand stalks of fresh roses from God where (the Netherlands?) and arranged painstakingly stalk by stalk all over the f*cking place. I was arranging the chairs one time and the whole place smelt like, like, like…Let’s just say I can take a sh*t right in the middle of it all and you would have absolutely no idea until you step on my load.

The pastor will be there, exchanging vows, signing of some useless pieces of paper and then followed by a cocktail party first. Americans can f*cking drink, I tell you, and they tip even better after their third martini. At about nine, dinner starts, guests take their seats (a table of ten to twelve, about thirty tables or so) and there is always a band and a dance floor right in the middle of the hall. The band, well, that is one of the reasons American weddings are way better than Chinese ones. They play all kinds of hits, and without fail, Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ will be played after the guests have a few drinks and then you will see a hundred of drunkards singing and dancing on the dance floor. And oh, slippers will always be provided at the door for sluts in five-inch-heels who later decides to perform an impromptu erotic dance for her date.

As usual, there will be a segment where parents, friends and family are asked to speak a few (prepared) words. And Americans are born to do this stand-up comedy sh*t, the guys especially. Brothers and best buddies are usually the ones going up and stirring the sh*t out of the groom’s past and it will be absolutely hilarious. I have learnt quite a few lines from them already and if anyone of you guys decides to do something stupid like getting married, I will be the first on the stage telling your in-laws about the girl from Phuture you had a one-night stand with and later forced to abort your child. Be afraid, be very afraid.

The whole thing will end like at two in the morning, and there will always be a few wasted assholes still hanging around for more free booze. I usually serve them a cocktail of cranberry juice and my urine and they tip me for that. Americans. Long after those drunkards crash their car on some secluded road and crack their skull on the dashboard, I will finally hit the sack at like four in the morning and oh well, tomorrow is just another day for me. But hey, at least I am not the dumbf*ck who blew two hundred grand on some fancy wedding in return for a ring on his finger and the same vagina the rest of his life.

You know a wedding is just like a funeral except that you get to smell your own flowers.

So yeah, I just had my bath and made myself some supper (instant noodles). Do you know that instant noodles here cost twice as much as in Singapore? Plus it is incredibly hard to find, only those bigger supermarkets sell them. Anyway, I was working out after posting my previous entry. Yeah, I am working out a lot more lately (like five times a week), primarily because the gymnasium is right next to the laundry room, and I do my laundry pretty often as I am only given two sets of uniform. We are supposedly ‘allowed’ to use the gymnasium at night as long as there are no members present, and so far, it is empty around nine, but to be safe, I only work out after ten. It takes about forty minutes to wash my clothes, and another forty to dry them, so all in all, I work out for like eighty plus minutes every time I do my laundry.

Well, I was saying, the food do take some getting used to, generally speaking, I am doing much better these days. I no longer need a map when I walk around Woodmere as I have already memorised most of the streets by heart. There are two supermarkets nearby which sells the daily essentials I need and then some, and I have located the nearest post office (most of you should have got my postcard by now, and you are welcome). I recently discovered a local grocery store which I frequent regularly for my vegetables and fruits, and I bought a prepaid mobile phone, opened a bank account (with Chase) and of course, I now know where to get cheap international calling cards and tasty Chinese delights. And oh, there is this liquor store which sells cheap whiskey and the lady boss, a (South) Korean, mistook me for one of her fellow countrymen when I first entered her shop. Seriously, do I really look that much like Yoon Ji Hoo?

There are a few sushi joints which I have yet to try, but I have made befriended this café owner which sells traditional American breakfast. Her name is Susan, she is in her forties and she runs the place with her brother-in-law. If you can recall my Facebook status, I went jogging after my very first night in Woodmere Club and was starving after my beef jerky dinner, so I settled down into her corner café for a hot cup of coffee and some toast. Having my first meal there was quite an experience, because thus far I have only seen such cafés on television and movie screen. And I left a tip on the table, just like the Americans always do, and just like I first imagined myself it. The whole thing was kind of surreal, if only I did not f*ck it up at the beginning.

See, ordering American breakfast is a f*cking pain in the ass. First, your coffee and you have to tell Susan if you like some milk and sugar, and if you prefer skim milk or regular milk, Sweet’N Low or regular sugar. Then comes your breakfast. Omelettes, salads, sandwiches, burgers, whatever- I had omelettes that morning. Now, you have to let Susan know what sort of eggs you like (egg whites or regular ones), scrambled or otherwise, and you want either bacon or ham with it, and if you want it by the side. Then you come to the toast, and you have to choose the bread (whole-wheat, white, rye et cetera) and if you like it toasted. So, after five minutes of talking, you are finally done. In the same five minutes, some of my friends have finished having sex and subsequently became pregnant, and I have only, well, finished ordering my f*cking breakfast. In Singapore, we just say “bak chor mee, mee pok, ai hiam” followed by our table number, and then we tell the drink-store lady “kopi-o” and that’s it, we are done ordering our breakfast.

But Susan was very patient and she took her time to explain everything to me- that was something the American drama serials and movies never taught me. She was rather friendly and she gave me advice about a few places in town I could hang out at night- like the pub (but that is another story for another day) and the movie theatres. Oh yes, I just caught The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 yesterday at a cinema in the next town (fifteen minutes by train). Well, a pretty average movie, the only interesting thing being fact that I just got myself acquainted with the New York subway system a couple of weeks ago and now I am watching a film about a robbery of a subway train. I kind of like the Ryder character played by John Travolta, a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wants, a smart man at that, but apparently not smart enough. Denzel Washington deserves a special mention for his rather touching scene with his wife about the gallon of milk she asked him to buy on the way home.

Well, as you can see, I am adapting better with each passing day, and like I have said, I am a product of my environment. Then again, adapting is one thing, Americanising is another. Unfortunately, I have to go to bed now, so I will blog more about the American’s way of life next week. Till then, take care and goodnight, Singapore.

You know everything takes time.

It is fifteen past seven right now, and guess what? I am on the rooftop right now (my very own ‘fortress of solitude’ I told you guys about in my last entry), sitting on one of the edges (don’t worry, it is only three storeys and I have the reflexes of a cat) and telling the world my thoughts. For obvious reasons, my laptop is currently on external battery, so I have got a little more than ninety minutes to complete this particular entry of mine.

I doubt it is a permanent thing, but the New York skies are f*cking bright even at seven in the evening. I was out walking about Woodmere town the other day and you barely even need the headlights to drive at nine at night- that is how bright it can get. By five in the morning, it is already as bright as a Harvard law graduate. Anyway, today was another of my off days, and I was supposed to go to the library after lunch but it was drizzling and I decided against braving the rain a second consecutive week (it always rain when I want to go out, f*ck). In the end, I spent the afternoon watching the Confederation Cup match between United States and Spain with my colleagues and managers (South American and American respectively).

I just made myself some dinner and as I snacked on some beef jerky now, it kind of reminded me of my first dinner in New York City. Well, I shall let you in on a few things first. Woodmere Club never does any breakfast, and there is no dinner either from Tuesday to Thursday, unless there is a special reservation of more than twenty. Lunch is slow on these three days too, and it is only on Fridays and weekends do business picks up. There are always functions on such nights- weddings, charity events, farewell parties, birthday celebrations et cetera, and these events often involve more than two hundred guests. Mondays the club is closed to members but opened to public, where people pay (a ton) to have a round of eighteen holes on the golf course, with breakfast, lunch and dinner included.

There is food every single day at half past ten in the morning, but dinner (at five in the evening) is selective, only when there are events and such. Whether I am working or not, I can eat for free, but like last Monday, there was a huge downpour on Sunday night and the greens could not dry in time, hence the public golf outing was cancelled, so I had to find my own three meals that day. Now, back to the packet of beef jerky- yes, that was my dinner for my first night in America. It was miserable, yet memorable. Let us rewind a couple of weeks.

The pilot somehow manage to fly twenty minutes faster (he must have turned on the Nitrous or something), and so at half past six in the morning, my plane touched down at JFK and I took my first step on American soil. After settling the babysitting duties Best Agent Ever assigned me, I made my way to Woodmere Club alone. I already printed all the maps beforehand (I stayed up the whole night before my flight researching on Google Maps), but the 0.8 mile specified on the website seemed a whole lot longer when one is jet lagged, carrying two huge bags and not staring at the destination from a laptop screen. F*ck.

I made my first friend at the train station (Stan, an elderly man with a head full of white hair ala Magneto), and as I told you before, I kind of stand out with my Asian skin and golden hair in little Woodmere, plus, everybody love to chat me up, even sixty-year-old grandfather. Miraculously, I managed to reach Woodmere Club five minutes early and I was then introduced to the managers and staff- they were all really lovely. Well, I already knew beforehand (from Best Agent Ever) that I was going to be the first student ever on this work and travel programme to the club, one of the so-called ‘pioneers’ and therefore I was particularly keen about leaving a good impression (before my two douche-bag-roommates showed up the next day and ruined my master plan).

I was showed my room and the cooks made me lunch and then, one of the Filipino waiter living next door brought me out to buy some stuff (a bottle of shampoo, some milk and THE packet of beef jerky). I took a nap and woke up at nine only to find there was NO DINNER. But I did not want to give my new friends and colleagues the impression that I was particularly difficult or high-maintenance or anything. So I took a long, hot bath and settled down to have the pitiful packet of beef jerky and a glass of milk for dinner, before MSN-ing some of my friends in Singapore (who were already missing my presence in their lives). So, yeah, that is about it- my first twenty-four hours in the United States of America.

Sh*t, I am almost finishing my packet of beef jerky- a constipation-inducing food. See, I was constipated for like the first few days I arrived and only unloaded my first pile of sh*t on American soil on the fourth day or something. Plus the food the club feed us is not helping my bowel movement at all. They American love meat, and I do mean LOVE. The only vegetable they eat on a daily basis is potatoes- how the f*ck is anything going to come out of anybody’s ass with only f*cking potatoes? Every single meal, there is filet mignon, lamp chop, chicken breast, and yes, baked potatoes (all leftovers from the event the night before). I am not complaining as it definitely beats army food, but I really need to have some greens and fruits in my diet.

Anyway, I got to go now- my laptop is dying! Anyway, I will continue my entry after I do my laundry and work out.

Later.

You know I need to go.

Finally, more than two weeks after I first embarked on Operation ABJ, I found the time to blog about my life here. There are so many things I wish to tell you, which is only natural since this is like a totally different environment and a whole new way of life that I am still getting used to. So, let me start with now.

It is a rainy Thursday afternoon and I need not work today, so I braved the rain (with this pitiful umbrella I borrowed from my Filipino roommate) and made my way to the Woodmere Library. Seriously, the roads in America are pretty f*cked up compared to Singapore. There are holes everywhere and the roads are never entirely flat, always slanting to the sides and forming countless puddles of water. And no, I am not speaking about those tiny little puddles you can jump over when you go jogging in Choa Chu Kang during a drizzle, but these big-ass puddles that are at least ankle deep and as wide as Shaquille O’Neal’s waist. Anyway, while I was on the way here, a motherf*cker Cadillac Escalade drove over one such Shaq-like puddle and if it was not for my Pepe Reina-like reflexes, I would now look like some wet, homeless Chinaman seeking refuge in the confines of a public library.

So, I am currently in a quiet corner listening to Augustana while typing away on my laptop. There is like this cute college girl sitting across me, studying for her SAT or something. But she is most definitely jailbait- allow me to explain. American chicks are way different from Asian chicks, besides the bigger cup sizes and everything. American girls are generally bigger, and their body develops earlier, but the main problem here is the way the young ones dress. I mean, fourteen-year-olds here possess the fashion sense of twenty-year-old slutty Singaporean university students. Remember the translucent top and black brassiere which Sheena wore? Yeah, girls my youngest sister’s age (fifteen) dress in exactly the same way on the streets. I mean, these girls know they have a hot body, and they know guys want to f*ck them but cannot, so they are taking pleasure in being the ultimate cock-tease their age allow them to be. And yes, I have checked, the legal age to have sex in New York (it varies from state to state) is seventeen, hetero or homo.

Therefore, in conclusion, girls in the States usually tend to look older than their age suggest due to the way they dress, and hence, eighty percent of them who catch my eyes on the streets are in reality jailbait- now you know what I mean. Anyway, I am currently shifting my attention away from this supposedly ‘college girl’ to this MILF librarian who has been bending down in front of me and arranging like these same four books for the past two hours- I heard they can be quite the cougar.

Okay, back to Woodmere. It is a quiet little town in Long Island, an hour’s train ride from Manhattan. It is right next to JFK and its population is mainly made up of Jews, filthy rich Jews at that. As observed from the photographs of the members’ cars I uploaded onto Facebook, these f*ckers are super duper rich, and my club is a private club where most of its members are old, wealthy, retired multi-millionaires (I heard from my colleagues that a number of them are victims of the Bernard Madoff’s Ponzi scheme, and we all know how rich you have to be for Madoff to want to cheat you of your money). Lunch at the club is like meal time at a mini Jewish retirement home, only difference being the one million-carat diamond rings on the fingers of the ladies and the car keys to SLK 550 which the men places on the tables.

The only Asians in this little town are the Indian owner of the local convenience store (which sells cheap booze and even cheaper international calling cards) and this handful of Chinese who run the local Chinese take-out (aptly named Chen’s Kitchen). Speaking of which, I have visited the restaurant like half dozen times already in the two weeks plus I have been in Woodmere- I surprise even myself at my attachment to Asian cuisine. And yes, here in Woodmere, I am totally made to feel like I belong to a minority group- just the other day while I was jogging, I got stared at so much I thought I was (a naked) Megan Fox. Anyway, work here is fine, weekdays are as quiet as the Emirates Stadium when their team is three-nil down to the English, European and World Champions, while weekends are as packed as the current Bernabéu dressing room. The waiters here are all Filipinos while the cooks and cleaners are mainly Hispanics (Mexicans, Ecuadorians, Chileans, Puerto Ricans and Hondurans). They are all generally friendly, and I am practising my Spanish on a daily basis with them.

There is hot water in the bathroom (especially useful on rainy nights where it can get below ten degree Celsius), free internet connection (though it disconnects as often as Best Agent Ever’s iPod), a refrigerator and we can use the club’s kitchen freely after work (an absolute heaven for a master chef like yours truly over here). The only not-so-good thing is my Virgin Mobile connection is kind of sh*tty in the room, so I have to climb out of the window (in the toilet) to get to the rooftop where the connection is slightly better. And oh, the lovely rooftop. I love hanging out alone there at night, making calls to friends and family in Singapore, watching planes fly by and admiring the stars (when the skies are clear). It is also the place where I spent most of time reflecting on my time in America.

My two roommates from Singapore (on the same work and travel programme) are not exactly the best (as compared to my roommates in Brunei), and living with them, I have learnt to become a ‘bigger’ person. As in, I learn to have a bigger heart, to be more tolerant of their selfish behaviour, their princely, pampered youngest-child-in-the-family attitude. They whine a lot, and they are so very MCP- I mean, I know I do have my MCP moments as well, but that is only because others mistake my independent nature for something else. Well, looking on the bright side, I am kind of glad I am forced to live with these sh*t-heads as this is the only way I will grow up and learn to be kind to people who do not deserve my kindness.

So, sixteen days into Operation ABJ, even though I have yet to achieved my primary objective (the blowjob), I have learnt a whole lot about America, about Americans and about myself. Another three more months of Americanisation beckons and I am whole-heartedly looking forward to it. Anyway, I got to go Chen’s Kitchen now for my bi-weekly dose of Chinese food, plus the cougar librarian is going to break her back with all the bending and squatting she has been doing if I do not give her some of my attention soon enough.

You know I am not quite the same from what I made myself out to be.

It is six in the morning and in another twenty-four hours I should be halfway across the Pacific Ocean, provided my plane does not get strike by lightning. See, the news is just in that Air France Flight 447 has gone missing halfway across the Atlantic Ocean. I was telling Ayu about it, and he was like all pussy and sh*t, telling me he never enjoyed flying and flying is equivalent to eating Indian Rojak. I taunted him by calling him Dennis Pussy-kamp, and he responded by questioning just what exactly do I fear. All right, the swine flu did pretty much nothing to dent my determination in getting that elusive American blowjob, and now even with this French jet and everything, I feel an even more urgent need to get blown by a blonde before my plane do an Oceanic Flight 815 and polar bears start f*cking appearing in tropical rainforest.

Well, I would be lying if I said I had no fears. For one, I am totally afraid of Liverpool winning the EPL in my lifetime. Okay, I am not afraid of death, what’s new? Like I have reiterated in my previous entry, death, like love, comes most unexpectedly, and there is absolutely no way it can be prevented- so my point is, why fear something you are can do nothing about? I do have my fears, say, I do fear leading an unfulfilled life, and I do fear not being remembered.

Like everyone else, I have my goals and my dreams, and I am afraid that I would be unable to achieve them before my time is up. And I am scared that when I am alive, I would not have done enough to love my family and friends, so much so that when I am gone, I will be forgotten, just another tombstone stuck in the ground. Most of all, I fear leading a life of mediocrity. With that, I am not referring to a lack of wealth or fame, but the sense of insignificance. When I want to close my eyes for the last time, I want to be able to tell myself I led a life full of meaning and purpose, and I was happy making those around me happy.

So, why am I still heading for New York among all the uncertainty? Well, I don’t exactly know, to be honest. A part of me just wants to be alone, as in “alone” alone, a place where the only person who knows me is me. I hope to find myself, to find my meaning in life- I am twenty-four now, coming to twenty-five soon, yet I find that with so much of time I have only achieved so little. All I have with me are just my life experiences, people I have known, places I have been, knowledge I have gathered, and that’s about it. I feel I am capable of so much more, yet where do I even start? I am not too sure, perhaps in New York I will find what I am looking for.

I just heard the national anthem go off on Class 95- the first time since my secondary school days, if my memory serves me right. Well, I need to go pack my sh*t now and to those who texted me with your well wishes, I appreciate them very much. See you when I get back, if I get back, that is.

You know I will be out of sight, but never out of mind.

Okay, I know you know my examinations ended last Thursday, but I have been so f*cking busy, no sh*t. So busy that I only got to know Michael Scofield died this morning (although the Prison Break two-hour finale was like last Friday). A thousand apologies nevertheless, and I do have a ton of sh*t to tell you, my faithful fans and friends.

I met my beloved primary school classmates straight after my final paper, and we did the usual catching up and sh*t. Honey is still Honey, forever mysterious, forever vague in her answers. But for a change, I saw a truly happy JT who is finally blissfully in love. Well, every couple has their rough patches, for JT, it came rather early but I am glad that those days are behind her now. Anyway, the whole time during our dinner, MM and Honey were like matchmaking JT and I, simply because they only just discovered that she was always confiding in me when she was having problems with her relationship the past few months. Well, you know me, I am always there for my friends (pussies and penises alike), no questions asked. But the thing is, I don’t date friends. See, I am one who firmly believes in love at first sight, so it is either I am instantly attracted to you at the very moment our eyes first meet (Miss Y, Tattoo Girl, Megan Fox, Maria Sharapova et cetera) or I see you as just another specimen from the opposite gender and classify you under the ‘friends’ category. So now, you ladies know that with me, there is only one shot at a first impression.

Speaking of Miss Y, I was msn-ing ZZZ the other day (after our initial hiccup, I am beginning to feel more at ease conversing with her nowadays, a case of familiarity breeds comfort) and I confessed to her about my crush on her good friend. As much as (a player) like me relishes a challenge, my love for Miss Y is pure and true and I would never f*ck with her happiness. Like Chuck, I am honest enough to know that I am not what the lady needs right now, so I will stand aside and let her find her happiness with Donut Boy. Chuck and I are living evidences that even a player has a heart.

Next up, HL, and she was totally the sweetest of them all. You know what, she actually wrote me this beautiful card as a farewell gift (for Operation ABJ). Let me see, when was the last time I got a card… Oh, I remember now, it was during the soccer match where my team thrashed some amateur asses, and guess what? The card was yellow. Anyway, HL was saying that with me, change is the only constant. Well, I would not entirely disagree with her, but it is just that I feel I am one who is rather adaptable, one who chooses to be a product of my environment. Take for instance me picking up and quitting smoking- there was not really any solid reason behind either cases. I know my friends were shocked when I started smoking, but they were even more shocked when I decided to kick the habit- show me a boy who can quit smoking at the age of twenty-three, and I will show you a boy of character.

Change, I like change and I love surprises, both giving and receiving. Once upon a time, I could not quite understand why people actually pay to get lung cancer, but after being one of them for more than two years, I come to understand that certain things are just the way they are. Once upon a time, I could not help staying out of love, but now, I cannot understand what is the big deal about being a relationship (free blowjobs notwithstanding). Once upon a time, I enjoyed drinking my own body weight, but for the past twelve months, the only alcohol I consume is rum-flavoured ice cream from Swensen’s. Once upon a time, I could not care less about my studies, but as the past three months has shown, I can display the same level of dedication and commitment as Wayne Rooney and Ji-Sung Park combined.

Now, finally, there is Best Agent Ever. We have been texting/talking/msn-ing way too much for our own good lately, but as I have mentioned in the previous paragraph, certain things just cannot be helped from turning out the way they are meant to be. Well, we talked about every deluded c*nt under the sun (okay, I may have exaggerated, there is just one deluded c*nt we talked about), and perhaps she is right, I should learn to live and let live, just a little bit. Speaking of which, XP remarked the other day that actually, Nala and I are not so different. Upon hearing that, I very nearly did a Cashley Cole and swerved off the f*cking road. I jammed the brakes just in the nick of time and afterwards, I told XP in no uncertain terms to ‘get the f*ck out of my car’. Okay, I was just kidding. I mean, if I actually did that, then wouldn’t I have proved XP right by being as petty as Nala (talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy). Anyway, for the safety of other road users, I made XP promise never to mention Nala and me in the same sentence ever again.

Well, Best Agent Ever was kind of judgemental when it comes to guys (for obvious reasons), and me being one of those she judges, I kind of felt it was my duty to educate her. I mean, I do know I am judgemental at times myself, but she is taking it to a whole new level. At least I bother to give others a shot at a first impression, for her, it is like, just one look, and that’s it, you are a player, you worship Edison, you enjoy making porn in your bedroom. Like I have said, people change, and I suggested Best Agent Ever stop living in the past and learn to embrace the idea that people can actually become different with time. There are certain things I cannot say, so I just want to add that perhaps with time, and given the right opportunities, she can find what she is looking for.

Good luck, my newfound friend, we both know you will need it.

You know I know who you really want to marry.

Gossip Girl never fails to provide me with material to blog about. Two weeks ago (in the ‘Southern Gentlemen Prefers Blondes’ episode), Nate and Chuck (two best friends) were sitting alone at a bar discussing Blair (a girl whom both of them were into). Not to bore you (i.e. those who do not follow GG) with the details, Chuck was telling Nate in order to love Blair, he must love her for who she is. She may change over time, but still, if the desire remains strong enough, he will still love her for who she is no matter what happens, and is exactly why I am totally against trying to change the other party (when in a relationship). No matter if the girl is Miss Y or Megan Fox, I will still be the same GuangHui, I will still blog in my pseudo-Edison-Chen persona, I will never change my religion and I will love her for who she is, on my own terms, and hope she loves me for who I am as well.

In this week’s episode ‘The Wrath Of Con’, Chuck did the most amazing thing ever- he gave up Blair so that she could be with Nate. See, in Blair’s heart, Chuck has always been number one, and they have always been like a pseudo-couple. They both loved each other deeply, but Chuck is inherently an American version of Edison Chen, and he knows he will never be able to give up his player lifestyle for Blair, even though she is the only girl he ever cared about. Blair, for her part, wanted to be with Chuck, as he understands her flaws like he understands his own, and is willing to love her for who she is, instead of trying to mould her into the woman he wants to love, which is what Nate is doing (besides, Nate is stable but boring, Chuck is player-ish but intriguing). So, you understand Blair’s dilemma and throughout the whole of season two, Blair was trying to move on with Nate, but Chuck was always right beside her, acting like he cared.

Anyway, Blair was telling Chuck this time round, she wanted an answer from him, if he really loved her and more importantly, whether he really wanted to be with her. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she said that if he really wanted to, they could be together and they would just figure things out along the way. It was f*cking touching, yet Chuck being the player that he is, was totally accustomed to girls and their use of tears as emotional blackmail. Well, he simply looked her in the eyes and said in the coolest possible manner, ‘it’s just a game’. Blair wiped her tears away, thanked Chuck for setting her free and left for Nate’s embrace. Later, a friend who overheard the whole conversation questioned why he did what he did. ‘Because I love her, and I can’t make her happy’ Chuck replied dryly, with a tone of regret in his voice.

Well now, even a player can have a heart, and even a player can learn to sacrifice himself for the happiness of the one he loves. Put me in Chuck’s shoes, I wonder what I would have come out of my mouth. Like Chuck, I can be totally nonchalant, but unlike him, I am not very good at rejecting girls, not lest the girl I truly love. Had it been Nameless or Miss Y or any one of the half dozen girls I dream about every other night, I doubt I would be able to say ‘sorry my dear, but right now, I have more important things to do than to let a pussy distract me from my plans’. It takes courage to utter the three words with eight letters, but if you ask me, it takes much more than courage to say goodbye to the one you love.

I feel for Chuck, but at the end of day, somebody has to get hurt, and why not let it be the one who most deserves it? Haix, once again memories come flooding back and my emotions have got the better of me. I have so much on my mind right now, and though I would love to tell you guys all about it, I desperately need to sleep for I have a full day of mugging coming up tomorrow. I am going to lie in bed now with my thoughts, with nothing but my thoughts.

You know I may be a cynic of happily-ever-afters, yet deep down I want to believe she really exists.