I do not usually blog this early in the evening, but it is Wednesday and there is a place I need to be later. You know, the lovely place off Havelock Road beside Grand Copthorne Waterfront Hotel where horny Singaporean guys and gals congregate every Wednesday night? Yeah, that’s the place. Now that MOS has gone the way of Lehman Brothers, it does not leave me with much of a choice, does it?

Anyway, I have been listening the sh*t out of Jay’s latest album (in the bathroom, on the bus, in the gym). Sadly, I find the tracks becoming distinctly average after the like 134,092^nd repetition. It is kind of like Sheena- too much of certain things can actually lead to diminishing marginal utility (for you dumbasses out there, it means the more you have of something, the less you are fond of it). She is becoming somewhat more extravagant with her dressing with each passing Wednesday morning, and currently, she is like one notch below the slut status I told you about a couple of weeks back.

I mean, if you are beautiful, you are beautiful. Just dress simply, it is a school after all for crying out loud. Well, I overslept this morning, so in the end I only had an hour and a half to stare at her black brassiere through her translucent slut extravagant fishnet top. Shrek was obviously pretty turned on, but honestly, it was a total boner-shrinker to me. Seriously, if that is what I want to ogle at, I can certainly find truckloads of them later at the ‘lovely place’ I told you about earlier. I told Shrek as much, and now I am telling you people who are still schooling- less is not more, at least not to (decent) guys like me.

As fate has it, Monday’s marketing class was postponed, no thanks to the charcoal-walking festival Deepavali. And with it went my opportunity to get into Tattoo Girl’s pants to know Tattoo Girl better. The c*nt who disturbed the peace last Monday has not been forgotten nor forgiven. Stay away from me, Elton John.

That leaves Miss Y. I did not see her in school yesterday. Perhaps my perverted ogling admiring glances from afar are getting a tad too obvious and she transferred to another class or something. Beats me. Anyway, this week I am not too big on the fairer sex, so let us move on to some other sh*t.

I was out with my JC mates the other day- it has been a long, long time since we caught up and they have totally changed. Mellowed, more ‘adult’, I would say. One is working, earning big bucks and planning to migrate to Thailand before he turns thirty; the other is doing pretty well at IRAS, while the last one is still at NUS, and contemplating marriage. Honestly, at my age, when my friends call me up and tell me they are getting married, my first question would be when the baby is due. I mean, come on, we all know we all have pre-martial sex- who doesn’t? And the law of probability dictates that one of this day, your luck is going to run out and the Singapore Government will be paying you for that. Well, it is certainly no shame, not in this day and age. Look at Bristol Palin- not only does she has the support of her red-hot MILF mother, she even has the support of the Republican Party.

Anyway, my friend’s girl is not pregnant (unfortunately), they just PLANNED to get married soon. Seriously, who the hell plans to get married while he is still two years away from graduating? And the economy is not exactly rosy right now. I mean I can understand it if the girl’s billionaire father is currently bed-ridden with some terminal disease and she is his only child and sh*t. Being twenty-five and able to roam the streets of Singapore in a Z4 M Roadster bought with someone else’s inheritance is definitely an enticing prospect, and not one any guy with half a brain should refuse.

Well, he then shot me the question- so, when would I myself want to get married? My answer was simple- when my girlfriend gets pregnant, and the countless trips to the abortion clinic does not do sh*t to her bulge anymore. But of course, I need to conduct the standard DNA test first to ascertain that the kid is mine. All right, all right, I mean, seriously, I want to get married at thirty-five. No, there is no typo, it is THIRTY-FIVE. What is the big deal? I do not understand. Like I have said before and I shall say again, love can wait, getting my ducks in line comes first. Really. My dick is well ‘capitalised’ and no ‘credit event’ is expected to befall it for the next half a century or so and it will continue dishing out ‘dividends’ every Wednesday night. So, yeah, thirty-five- trust me. Okay, remember to call me when your baby is due. I hate weddings, but I do love kids.

Last but not least, I just want to say a very good evening to you gorgeous ladies out there, reading my magnificent blog from the comfort of your own home on this beautiful night. If you are not doing anything later, I just want let you know that the doors are still opened, and I am still very much available. Like they always say, there is never a wrong time to tempt fate. Put on your little black dress, underwear is optional.

You know you want me.

*Former childhood fan of Everton and his United badge having some

  PDA in front of Evertonians. Definitely won’t be visiting his granny

  in Merseyside anytime soon. Absolute legend.

*No love lost between former United legend Phil and you’ve-been-

  murked Rio after the former tried to break CR07’s dick with his

  studs. He definitely won’t be getting any future coaching/scouting/

  ambassador job with United. F*cking traitor.

*The return of the most lovable character in the EPL. He is also the

  player who taught me all about making a ‘clean’ tackle. If you can’t

  get the ball, get the man. If you can’t get the man, snuff out a

  cigarette using his eye. My hero. 

Another week of school brought about another round of surprises. Matters of the heart are totally unpredictable, no? The ones you most want to see turn startlingly cold, while others who have been left on the shelves unexpectedly gain new life. Nevertheless, like they say, the players may have changed, but the game remains the same.

First things first, after my previous ‘revealing’ entry, I have received some anxious messages (on MSN) from my ever nosy concerned friends enquiring about the fate of my blog and our late-night suppers. Well, let me clarify. I am just saying I got to cut down on my leisure activities and manage my time better. Certain things will undoubtedly take priority- things like school, homework, giving tuition are top of the list. After that comes my thrice-weekly Hulk Hogan regime, and then lastly, time for blogging, friends, soccer and watching the greatest football club in the world steam-roll other utterly useless teams. See, at the end of the day, I have got to eat right, and I am sure I can find some time for supper with you sweet people, but only after I get my economics tutorial done. And lastly, after all of the above, if I still have some spare time left, maybe I would drown a couple of shots of tequila and pluck up the courage to ask Miss Y, Tattoo Girl or Sheena out. Yeah. Righttttttttttttttttt.

Speaking of the devil(s), let’s get started, shall we? Alphabetically, Miss Y has the honour of being first in line. Well, Miss Y is Miss Y, and as much as I would love to erase her from my memory, I just seem unable to do so. She is just impossible to ignore- given her height, whenever she enters the lecture hall, her presence will be felt at once, and in the process putting the other girls (who spend an hour in front of the mirror before class applying sh*t on their face) to shame. It is been scientifically proven that no amount of make-up can make you seem taller.

By the way, Shrek made a pretty interesting observation the other day. He noticed that the girls I really want to see (specifically, the three of them), I would only admire them from afar. I would try not to make my ogling seem too perverted obvious. And you know what? I think he was spot on, but then it struck me that he was actually observing me observing other girls. What the f*ck? I mean, was the accounting lecture really that boring? Or is he Elton John-ing yours truly? The second possibility sure as hell is going to give me countless sleepless nights.

So much for Miss Y. Now, Sheena, Sheena- the one whom I most wanted to see and the one whom disappointed me the most.  She was kind of indifferent towards me on Wednesday morning (none of the ‘look’ I told you guys about last week), and even though she was seated right in front of me for three long hours, I only admired her beautiful dyed hair for all of five seconds before my mind drifted to recalling the lyrics to Jay’s latest songs. Yes, she was THAT captivating- worse than some Chinese words written by the player from Taiwan. I am already regretting giving her a name on my blog. F*ck.

Lastly, there have been some rather interesting developments with Tattoo Girl. For the first time, we actually chatted about stuff besides the usual marketing sh*t, and surprisingly, she seems kind of sweet and somewhat innocent- nothing like her tattoos would suggest (I was like half expecting this bad-ass chick from the Philippines or something who does weed in her free time). And did I tell you she is from Singapore? Yeah, she told me that she is Singaporean, and she is a second year Business student (like me), and I was about to learn more about her when this motherf*cking c*nt intruded on our perfect little world.

He (yes, it is MUST be a he) was seated in front of me the whole time, and during the break, he suddenly started talking to me (while I was chatting Tattoo Girl up). In order not to seem like a skirt-chaser in front of my new friend, I gave my sincerest smile and replied that c*nt. Bad mistake- apparently, he had tons of sh*t to talk to me about, like he was some motherf*cking reporter from the Straits Times. At the end of it all, we realised that we were both from the same junior college, and he was my senior. What a small f*cking world. What a great f*cking timing. I was having my first real conversation with Tattoo Girl and he came knocking at my door. In the end, I did not even get her number. F*ck.

Pardon me for my obscenities, I know it was supposed to be a beautiful paragraph about how Tattoo Girl and I got to know each other, but hey, how was I to know this guy would come and chat me up, right? All right, on a brighter note, Jay’s album was released last week (as you all know by now), and he specially autographed it and airmailed it to me over the weekend. Pretty decent tracks generally, more of the same stuff (read: sad, heart-wrenching love songs) and I bet it is only a matter of time before those tears-inducing lyrics will starting popping up as MSN nicknames all over my contact list (I am looking forward to seeing tons  **了 **了 **了 **了 了 了 了 了).

And even better news- Roland (the guy who bears more than a striking resemblance with Les) is totally dead! Finally, I can stop punching my LCD screen whenever his ugly face appears on Prison Break. Over on Gossip Girl, Dan and Serena ran into each other for the first time since their bitter breakup, while Chuck grew sick of being Blair’s toy (for a change) and asked her for the ‘three words eight letters’ sh*t. But Heroes is still the best thing on American television these days. In fact, it is so good I do not want to spoil it for you people, so go catch it today at the nearest China illegal streaming website.

You know you love me.

Loveless in Singapore? Well, you are not alone, my friend. I have been single for a good eighteen months now, but I have no regrets. Though I am writing this from the point of view of a single, I do want this entry to be as unbiased as possible. And you people know you can trust my objectivity (Liverpool excluded).

Cupid has been kind to me. Unlike most singles out there (who have been perpetually single all their lives), I have actually ventured over the other side before, but unfortunately, I did not enjoy my time there, and I came back a wiser person. My first relationship came shortly after my fifteenth birthday- frankly, it was not as premature as most adults made it out to be at that time. She taught me stuff certainly, but that said, I was still a f*cking kid - I have not even learnt to shave, for crying out loud. What did I know about love then?

I shall not go into the details, but my avid readers and close friends would have known by now about the other three lucky ladies that followed. Each of them was a unique experience, and it is not just them who made it different. I was different as well, older, wiser, more experienced (not just in bed). Like when she is having one of her wild PMS mood swings, I know exactly what to do- simply avoid her at all cost. If it is not possible, I will just pretend she is my mum b*tching about my sh*t and all, and then do little things like holding her hand, looking her in the eye while she b*tches (listening is altogether optional) and refrain from buying her cold drinks during dinner (right, ladies?). Then, I will send her home and a peg on the cheek will do (none of the usual marathon Frenching at the lift lobby). She will still be in a bad mood and most probably forget your little actions once her period is over, but still, it is way better than picking a fight with an emotionally unstable b*tch and not getting her pussy for a month. It is called ‘looking at the big picture’, stupid.

I am sure you people know all about the wonders of relationship (free blowjobs and all) from TV shows and movies, but they do not show the more boring stuff, the day-to-day affairs. I mean, if being in love is like in the movies, then all we have to do every day is just to put on our nicest dresses, walk down Orchard Road holding each other’s hands, whisper sweet nothings to each other every five minutes, have tons of sex and live happily ever after. Yeah, rightttttttttttttt.

Falling in love is one thing, staying in love is another. The magic of love only last that long, and after that, both parties got to dig deep and make it work. I would like to believe I have pretty impressive powers of tolerance, but still, there is only so much I can take. My philosophy has always been- what GuangHui wants to give, he will give; what GuangHui does not want to give, you cannot snatch. And it has served me well so far (I think). But sometimes, I just do not understand why people try so hard to fall in love. I suppose the forbidden fruit always looks better than it tastes, and explaining to them the tortures of relationships will never work- certain things cannot be explained, it can only be experienced. And yes, love is one of them.

Singlehood has been good to me as well. All the girls who were supposed to have their periods did have their periods and that is the main reason I am still single. Nevertheless, there are always girls around, but I am just simply looking, you know, and never really feeling the urge to find ‘her’. Casual works fine for me right now, and frankly, I am twenty-three, in less than two years I will graduate and enter the workforce (belatedly). And I am a guy- my ovaries do not go bad in three year’s time like them ladies, so I am in no actual hurry to settle down. And as you know, unlike us, ladies experience decreasing return to scale as they age- the crow’s feet start appearing, the make-up required grows by an inch annually, and in the blink of an eye, they do not turn as many heads as they usually do when they are on the streets (think Jennifer Aniston).

I sincerely believe now is the time for me to get my sh*t in order, to ‘get my ducks in line’. Given the current uncertain climate, I really need to get a good degree to improve my chances of getting a good job (with good I do not mean high salary, but good prospects). I would really love to work overseas as soon as possible, expand my contacts, absorb as much as I can and return to Singapore in say, ten year’s time. And sad to say, the way I see it, I just cannot find a place for a girl in my plans, and I do not see why I should. I had my fair share of loving in my younger days, and I am grateful for that (we are only young once, a friend once told me). I have ‘wasted’ enough time, and now is I have to get started on the next phase of my life- adulthood. Partying, late-night suppers, being seen in places- none of them holds any importance to me anymore. If it is one in the morning and you find me studying at the neighbourhood McDonald’s, do not be surprised.

Certain things can wait. And love is one of them.

Now, for some more serious stuff. I woke up at eight this morning after last night’s (late) entry on the three chicks from school. So, I had my usual black coffee and the morning papers, and at nine sharp, I switched on the television (for the first time in a long time) to watch the final presidential debate between Barack ‘The One’ Obama and John ‘Maverick’ McCain.

I hate John McCain- there, I said it. He is just an older version of Bush with a hot hockey mum as his sidekick. Although McCain delivered a much-improved performance as compared to the last two debates, watching him live (instead of on Reuters) only serves to reinforce my hatred for this old fart. During the debate, he spent most of the time attacking Obama’s policy instead of explaining his own. I am not a voter, but honestly even if I am, how the f*ck am I going to be convinced by your presidential qualities if you keep stirring other people’s sh*t? And don’t get me started on Sarah I-can-see-Russia-from-my-house Palin. Seriously, I do not see how McCain is going to win the election unless something big happens before November 4^th. Something big like, say, another terrorist attack on American soil- only then can he sway the public’s opinion in his favour with his history of serving in Vietnam.

Personally, I would like a black American president- that would be a real statement against those c*nts who enjoy making monkey chants in stadiums from Madrid to Zagreb. Plus, unlike Maverick, Obama knows his sh*t on the economy. The way he spoke, the way he conducted himself during the debate, I was won over instantly. Although I disagree with him on certain policies, like his position on Israel (supporting countries like Israel is why the Americans will never eradicate extremism) and gun control (an America without guns is like my life without Miss Y- unthinkable), at the end of the day, the best man for the job is still Barack Hussein Obama II- change we can believe in.

On politics closer to home, Anwar recently announced (again) that he would take over the government in December (sometime before Christmas, if my memory serves me right). In celebration, he is going to invite Elton John and George Michael over for a Christmas Eve ‘performance’- no singing will be involved and microphones will most definitely not be required, I can assure you. This time next year, I expect same-sex marriages to be legalised and public display of fellatio (PDF) to be prominent in all Malaysian states.

By the way, I heard my dear friend Les has recently applied for Malaysian citizenship. Finally, he has found his true belonging. I am delighted for him.

It fills me with great pain to say this, but I am so over Miss Y. I don’t know, but she seems kind of stale already. School is indeed full of other girls, if I bother to take look around. See, I saw her again this week for my accounting class, and I mean, seeing her, like up close and personal, not checking her out from afar. We met at the door, our eyes sized each other up, and I gave way like a true gentleman. But this time round, something was lacking. My heart, it did not skip a beat like it normally would have. And I began to wonder, after blogging about her for a year, who exactly is Miss Y? Well, I am none the wiser from last year. She is just another face. I guess my heart knows better.

Well, I have four different classes each week, and after a month of lectures, I roughly know which girl(s) I am going to be seeing for each lecture, and I kind of look forward to it (some call it thinking with your dick, but I would say my heart has a great memory). So, briefly:

-Monday, marketing; MILF lecturer, Tattoo Girl

-Tuesday, finance; sweet-looking-Indonesian-chick-who-looks-like-a-Korean

-Tuesday, accounting; Miss Y, Shrek’s dancer-chick-friend

-Wednesday, microeconomics; Indo-chick again from finance, “Sheena”

I would now like to introduce to you guys this new girl- “Sheena”. First, I have no idea how to spell her name, but that was what my charismatic lecturer calls her by (his former student, presumably). And she sat in front of me most of the time during lectures and in doing so, she has somewhat caught my attention. In order to do that, she must possess one very important quality.

I am sure all of you know by now, there are girls who dress like sluts (read: going to Geylang straight after school to supplement their pocket money), and sad to say, I am not the least bit attracted to them. The louder their dresses, the more desperate they seem, and the less I will afford them my attention. I feel girls ought to just be themselves- it’s not like it’s a f*cking beauty pageant, you know what I mean? If you stand out, you stand out, period. So, there are girls I look at, and then there are girls I look for in order to look at. Sheena falls into the latter, simply because she is one thing- tall (like Miss Y). Personally, I place rather specific emphasise on height because I am no Hobbit myself. Plus, to stand out in a crowd of ladies, you can only either dress like a slut or be tall (and I don’t mean wearing six-inches heels). And no, putting a wig on Yao Ming will NOT make me look twice.

This Sheena is a rather interesting character, and as you all know, I only name my blog’s ladies when I know they will be a permanent fixture in days to come. Well, she is not the most beautiful of girls (after Miss Y, I have learnt to lower public expectations), but there is something about her. During lecture breaks, I have passed her a couple of times. And each time, she looked me in the eye, like she known me from somewhere or something. No, not that ‘were-you-the–one-who-rub-your-dick-against-my-ass-last-night-at-Phuture’ look, but rather, the ‘I-have seen-you-before-in-my-dream’ look. I swear to God, that was the look she gave me. Maybe she does know me from somewhere. I mean, I have been dead drunk more times than I can remember, so there is a possibility that she is a sister/cousin/friend of the girl I spent the night with. But frankly, I cannot f*cking remember. Perhaps one of these days I will talk to Sheena about it. Perhaps.

Anyway, back to more familiar names, there has been some progress with Tattoo Girl. She is definitely not Singaporean, and that kinds of rule her out of the running for the ‘girls I would fall for’. After the last time round with you-know-who, I have well and truly learnt my lesson- the cultural divide is simply too wide even for my sweet nothings and charming ways to overcome. But, you know, Tattoo Girl is rather cool (she has a tattoo consisting of some Latin words which runs from her neck down to God knows where- how cool is that?), plus she is kind of good at the marketing sh*t, so there is no harm keeping her around for me to tap her ass knowledge when the need arises.

That’s about it- I know you good people have waited a long time for this entry. I just want to say that I have been really, really, really busy- I am crushed under the pile of tutorials, assignments and readings. So, sad to say, the emo entry I told you about previously has got to be postponed. But no worries, it is still happening, I just don’t now when. Like they tell you, good things are worth waiting for.

So, let us call it a night with this cracker I got from Reader’s Digest the other day- ‘You don’t get married to get sex. Getting married to get sex is like buying a 747 to get free peanuts’.

Make me want you.