From my Facebook and MSN status, you people should know by now that these past few days have been really rough on me. Work, colleagues, roommates (especially the roommates), health, my pillar of strength (whom I b*tch to most nights), it has been so long since so much have been so wrong about so many things. Bud Light Lime in my left hand, typing with my right, silence and solitude in the members’ cards room for a change (finally), I should be in the perfect mood to blog, but I do not want to give insignificant people who have been doing their best to f*ck up my life significant space on my blog. To be honest, I do not want to look back in a few months’ time and read about the foul mood I was in when I should be here enjoying myself in the land of freedom, looking for the things I came here to look for.

Perhaps Best Agent Ever was right, the sh*t has been slowly accumulating and it is finally getting to me. I really do need to go out and get some air. I am thinking of cutting short my gym tonight, waking up early and sitting by a bench in Central Park doing what I came here to do- ogling at countless big tits bouncing about in sweaty sports brassieres. I’m kidding. I just want to be go out, away from all the sh*t with inglourious colleagues and basterds roommates, and be by myself and meet some stranger whom path I will cross only once.

So, no entry this week. To those whom I MSN like I was having my period, I am truly sorry from the bottom of my heart. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day. Fingers crossed.

You know misery loves company.

F*ck. F*ck. F*ck. Why does it always f*cking rain when I go out during my off days? This time it is even worse, I was making my way to Chen’s Kitchen when the dark clouds started gathering and after lunch, the heavens opened upon Woodmere- i.e. no umbrella. Motherf*cker. I ended up chatting to the seven and five-year-old daughters of one of the cooks at the Chinese eatery for a good twenty minutes (and looking like a total paedophile in the process), waiting for the cats and dogs to get vanish but to no avail. I could not wait anymore and decided to brave the rain and run to the library. And this time round, I did end up looking at a homeless Chinaman seeking refuge in the library.

Why do I come to the library so often? I cannot pinpoint the exact reason, but I do enjoy being alone in a quiet place, left in my own space with a peace of mind to do my own things, be it reading a book or blogging or watching season two of 30 Rock. Besides a Starbucks café with free wireless connection, the library is the next best place which is able to afford the privacy and solitude I need.

Anyway, I was in Manhattan last Thursday and for the first time in my life, I watched three movies in a row. See, the cinemas over here is nothing like the ones in Singapore. Here they are like an all-you-can-ride amusement park- just buy one ticket and you can watch as many movies as your eyes can afford to. It is almost as if the cinema operators encourage you to do so- the title of the film and the time it begins are conveniently displayed at the entrance of every movie theatre. So, I bought a ticket for Revenge of the Fallen and watched Public Enemies and Hangover as well. Anyway, movie review time- my friends say I make a good movie critic, and I hate to disappoint them.

Revenge of the Fallen is all about (my ex) Megan Fox and her tits, and occasionally her lips (say ‘Camshaft’ real slow again…) and ass as well. The storyline was never going to be as good as its predecessor and from the very first scene where we see my ex on a two-wheeler with her hot ass protruding from the seat like the millions of (heterosexual) penises which reacted in response of her well-placed ass, we all know Michael Bay is trying to milk Megan for what she is worth. Explosions and more explosions later, the one lasting image I had of the whole 150 minutes was that of Megan’s boobs banging against each other like there’s no tomorrow in slow motion (Michael Bay, you are now officially my favourite director) as she ran around in the desert- any guy who says otherwise is either lying or gay.

And oh, did I tell you, here the cinemas in New York, there are not that many commercials before the movie itself, but there are like half a dozen of trailers for upcoming movies, so you can be like twenty minutes late and still not miss the start of the film- especially useful if you are movie-hopping like me. On to Public Enemies now, a more my kind of film- well-crafted, wonderful cinematography, with a good pacing throughout and of course, Johnny Depp. He is a marvellous actor (Edward Scissorhands, Ichabod Crane, Captain Jack Sparrow, Willy Wonka, Sweeney Todd and now John Dillinger). His line “I like baseball, movies, good clothes, whiskey, fast cars, and you. What else you need to know?” is simply right out of the player 101 guidebook, and would sweep any girl right off her feet. His portrayal of Dillinger’s coolness under adversity is admirable, and it makes me wonder why on earth he has never won an Oscar before. The judges pick the winner each year, but just who the f*ck pick the judges? Donald Trump?

The Hangover is the film I enjoyed the most (out of the three), from the first second to the last, and it is a film that gave me another reason to love American. The censorship over here is virtually non-existent, and with the amount of nudity and profanity in the film, it is only rated R, meaning anyone can watch it, and if you are under seventeen, you just need an adult to accompany you. I can bet my last dollar there is no way His Majesty Lee Kuan Yew will allow such a film to pass through uncensored, and I can tell you the film will lose its meaning if it is cut. In any case, just wait for the bootleg version to show up online and if you really want to know, the unfunny version will be out in Singapore on 30th July.

Anyway, I got to go now. My ‘me time’ is almost up. See you guys next week, and sweet dreams (of Megan’s tits).

You know I am not petty.

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.