**As you can CLEARLY SEE, he took my leg so it was DEFINITELY a

penalty.

I had my first microeconomics class yesterday morning and nothing major happened really- there was no Miss Y and there was no Tattoo Girl. Well, it was crowded and I saw a ton of girls I have never seen before in school- they are most probably my seniors. Then again, I have been told there is no age limit in bed. Bless whoever told me that.

I paid a visit to the gym after that. I know I have been pretty busy with school and everything, but I still try to squeeze out one day per week to visit the gym, while my other two workout sessions are at home using my f*cking dumbbells which cost me a hole in the pocket. And going to the gym has its advantage- there are heavier weights, more sophisticated machines and more importantly, more babes.

I swear to God I will never visit the CCK gym after three o’clock every again. The last two times I was there, it was after three, and f*cking hell, the gym was a major cock fest. Yesterday was no different, save for this MILF who left after an hour (MILF = mother I love to, erm, it starts with f and rhymes with duck). Anyway, I saw this guy who was superbly built, and struggling to bench-press a f*cking 10 kilograms barbell. I started starring at him and shaking my head in disbelief- motherf*cker must be on steroids. He then spent the next and hour and a half on the treadmill pussy-mill. Loser.

I got home from the gym and spent the next five hours in front of my laptop watching all the US drama serials. Let me give you a brief summary. Prison Break is going downhill. It really should have ended after the second season, but those blood-sucking executives wanted to milk the series dry and hence, the script slowly became Dirk Kuyt’s shooting- SH*T. Even with the return of Sara Tancredi, I cannot see how a fifth season of Prison Break is going to work out. Time to call it a day, Scofield.

Fringe too has fallen from the heights of the first couple of episodes. It is kind of like X-Files meet CSI, so I suppose it is not one for the fairer sex, and the only thing keeping me watching it every Tuesday is my personal fascination with “the pattern”. On the other hand, 90210 2.0 was a slight improvement from last week as it dealt with the major issue of pre-martial sex (my field of interest, by the way). I was somewhat in love with Jessica Stroup at the beginning, but seeing that she has started losing five pounds with each new episode, she is really morphing into a boner-shrinker. 

This week’s Gossip Girl was on lonelyboy’s breakup with S and how the two former lovebirds got on with each other’s life in the SAME school (once again, this is another of my many forte). Things got really spicy when they indulged in a game of “who dates first wins contest”, which coincidentally, I have never lost with any of my ex in any of my schools.

Last but not least, this week marks the return of Heroes. And God, it was bloody FANTASTIC- the two-hour premiere totally blew me away. Hiro and Ando were as adorable as ever, Claire confirmed herself as the resident bimbo of the show, Matt Parkman was still a waste of time, Molly disappeared along with Micah, Niki returned as my number one MILF, and most importantly, Sylar regained his powers. And did I tell you he is brothers with Nathan and Peter? Yeah, Gabriel f*cking Petrelli- this is sick sh*t man. Only Tim Kring can write such dope scripts, I tell you. I cannot wait for next week when he teams up with HRG.

Anyway, Warren Buffett just bought five billion dollars worth of shares in Goldman Sachs- it goes to show how fine a line there is between a genius and a fruitcake. He once said- be fearful while those around you are being greedy, be greedy while those around you are being fearful. I am going to heed his advice and try the same trick on my fantasy league team- David Bentley had better score a hat-trick this weekend or Warren Buffett’s a fruitcake.

It has been a rather slow week. Well, it is kind of obvious from the number of entries I posted this past week (zero). School has fully resumed and I am just getting back to the hang of things slowly, and it’s pretty obvious my time management skills has got to improve if I were to have any time to blog and enjoy more of ‘me’ time doing my own sh*t.

Anyway, Ronaldo was finally back last night, but it did not make a bloody difference- we were still sh*t. But at least we managed a point against Chelski, and not against the majestic Stoke City. I just want to add that the acquisition of Berbatov has upset the balance of our team and it seems like he is another Sh*tchenko- 30 million pounds of walking dogsh*t.

By the way, you know the sh*t that has happening with AIG the past week? I have an interesting theory for you- AIG was bailed out by the American government using taxpayer’s money right? Taxpayers like David Beckham, who is currently ‘working’ at Los Angeles Galaxy in the MLS. Okay, and AIG is one of the sponsors of the greatest club in the world. So, technically speaking, David Beckham is officially paying for the wages of John O’Sh*t. The world has truly become crazy.

Speaking of which, the sh*t that has been happening at Wall Street has been nothing short of spectacular. And I just want to say that- karma’s a b*tch, Americans. Remember not so long ago, the Asian financial crisis? Who was the one on the high horse, berating the Asian governments and central banks for helping out their respective economies? Oh, I have news- what goes around f*cking comes around. Using taxpayers’ money to buy out private firms? Oh please, tell me more. You can use all the money in the world to buy up all the bad debts, but it is no different from putting lipstick on a pig. End of the day, it is still a pig.

On a brighter note, I had my marketing class today, and remember the girl with a tattoo on her neck I told you about (I mentioned her briefly in my previous entry)? Yeah, she sat next to me today and I had the chance to let her check me out check her out. She is kind of cute actually (read: the nonchalant b*tch face), but she is not tall, and neither does she have long flowing hair like HER- strike one and two.

Then again, during the lecture, we were discussing the tutorial together and Tattoo Girl was rather sweet. She definitely knew her marketing sh*t better than me, though she was too shy to really express herself. And no, I DID NOT scribble my number on her notes (HL, please take note). But we did give each other a smile as we parted ways- a hint of things to come, or has things already gotten as good as it can get? There is always next week, right?

And oh, next week, my accounting class with Miss Y resumes- watch this space.

Today was the first day of school. Yes, I know, I had a class yesterday with Miss Y, but that was sort of an introduction and it was held on a Sunday morning, so there was no one in school. It was like a pre-season friendly, but today, today was the first day of the new season, and it totally reminded me why I love school. Once I alighted from the bus, it felt like coming home. First day of school, and all the boys and girls come out to play. Everyone was dressed to impress, especially the girls- way too little clothes, way too much make-up, a definite boner-shrinker (boner is American slang for an erection, and shrinker is well, shrinker). That said, out of the all the girls, there was one that really caught my eye, and I did not even get to see her face. Well, all I saw was the beautiful tattoo of some Latin words she has on her neck. That was neat- it takes one to appreciate one. Maybe I should get Miss Y tattooed in Latin on my neck too. That would be so romantic, no?

Anyway, never ever work out before going to class. I totally pushed myself to the limit (as my next Hulk Hogan session will be on Thursday due to classes and everything), the lactic acid built up and I had trouble lifting my arms to scribble down what the lecturer said. Lesson learnt, I suppose. Speaking of which, I kind of like the lecturer, Patricia Lui. The class was on Principles of Marketing, and that is definitely my cup of tea (the zero-cost walking advertising for Sony SLR digital camcorders and the wonders of pre-martial sex- Edison Chen).

So, I like my module, and I like my lecturer, which is kind of like Liverpool winning the EPL- once in a blue moon (maybe this is really their season, no?). Well, this module is like teaching you how/why/when to brainwash consumers into buying your product- my area of expertise, mostly because I worship Steve Jobs and he is after all the father of all salesmen. And Patricia, she is cool. And witty. She knows her sh*t well- she made a joke about Obama’s lipstick on a pig, and I almost wanted to laugh out loud, but I noticed no other student got the joke. F*cking undergraduates don’t even read the papers, wonder what the f*ck they read. Dummies’ guide to getting a blowjob? F*cking losers.

Anyway, this Patricia, I’m impressed by her- I have always like a lady who can let her hair down and have a laugh or two at herself. That’s sincerity, and that’s the type of women whom I can sit and talk to till two in the morning and never get bored.

That is something Miss Y can never do.

All right, I take back what I said. The flutter in my heart still remains.

I walked into the lecture hall and there she was. She so happened to be gazing at the entrance (expecting a friend, I suppose) when I stepped in, and she was the first thing I saw after all these time away from school. The familiar little face, the familiar flowing hair, and the familiar eyes. Those eyes…God, I just wish they were the first thing I see every morning when I open mine. Finally, all the nightmares I had of Ryan Babel’s goal were banished once and for all.

The head might have forgotten, but the heart, the heart always remembers.

It’s not often I have more than one entry a day, unless it’s for some important (or hot) chick like THE OL or Miss Y or Natasha or …….But tonight is a special night, because I was back at Chinese Garden for the Lantern Mooncake Festival, a place where I have been to with all my exes save for one.

*emo alert*

See, my N73 was spoilt a couple of days back right, so I have been using my 6610. I did not know at first that I saved so many messages in my old phone, but so it happened, I did. And some of them were from years back, and it included some really sweet ones from two of my ex and a couple of girls I dated at the period of time (all very big mistakes). Well, you’ve guessed it- I went through all 107 of them, purely out of curiosity, and not some sick read-and-wank-myself session. And the one of the messages goes, erm, I think it is better I do not disclose any of them- the sexual undertone is a tad inappropriate for my younger readers.

But my point is, I was reading them, and I was like, f*ck, they DID loved me, didn’t they? Am I like too cold-blooded the way I handled our break-up? Sh*t happened, but I mean, sh*t always happens, but could I have been softer towards their hearts? I don’t about you, but I have never been seriously hurt by any girl before. I mean, SY is not considered a ‘hurt’, but more of an eye-opener to the ways of a b*tch female kind. It was a lesson, and a lesson well learnt. But I always tell myself this- once you love somebody, you are putting yourself at risk of being hurt. This is the way of the game- the players may change, but the rules remain the same. So, in the end, I concluded that no, I was right to be heartless- not every story is meant to have a happy ending, b*tch.

Next, I was at Chinese Garden just now with my cousins and their family. I saw a thousand lanterns, another thousand couples and another thousand couples with their kids. And I saw this guy with four little girls and I thought to myself, karma is really a b*tch, now it is his daughters’ turn to pay for his debt. All those sleeping around will come around one fine day, so don’t say I did not warn you. In my head, I can already picture half a dozen of my guy friends suffering the same fate. The only feasible way to prevent karma from taking place is to chain their daughters up and put them in the basement once they turn fourteen.

Anyway, I would like to say a big thank you to all those gorgeous ladies at Chinese Garden tonight for keeping me entertained. I was with my cousins, who were still in primary school. They only want to talk about Teen Titans, not Obama and Palin. It was f*cking boring, okay. I mean, those guys who were there cam-whoring with their girlfriends, f*ck, I bet they must be bored to sh*t like me too. The one and only reason they endured the humidity and endless walking around carrying those sh*tty little lanterns is for the blowjobs they are going to get later once they reach home or car (whichever comes first). No, this is not another hypothetical assumption- I speak from experience.

So, I was here with my three exes before, but each gave me a somewhat different feeling. First time there with my girlfriend (with my second ex), I was kind of excited- hey, I was still a little kid then, and holding hands under the moonlight was bliss still, not a torture yet, okay. So, the feeling was of sweetness and innocent love. Second time there with my third ex, we spent a total of ten minutes taking photographs of some Hello Kitty lanterns and the next hundred minutes making out under this old tree in the west corner of the park (the darkest corner) I have located on my first trip there with the other ex. Hence, the feeling this time round was anxiousness (whether that tree was already taken or not) and satisfaction (after the mission was accomplished).

The last trip there with my other ex, I was like, “f*ck, do we really have to go? Can’t we like go over to your place, light some candles, and get it over and done with? “And she was like, “why? Why can’t we go? I have never been there before with my boyfriend, so I want to go!” She proceeded to do the little feet-stomping African tribe dance Singaporean girls are renown for when they are trying to get things done their way. Like always, it worked, but secretly, it was more of preventing her from asking further questions about my past outings to Chinese Garden than anything else. Moreover, she promised me certain “conditions” if I agreed (no, I don’t kiss and tell). So, this time round, the feeling was more of dread and what the f*ck, before a sense of achievement engulfed me as I managed to get the best deal out of it.

So, there you have it. I meant it to be an emo entry, but I just could not help myself. Happy lantern festival everybody.

After the emotional roller coaster of the last couple of days with older women and all, let us settle down for more normal stuff. I met up with Les, XP and Nala for supper last week- it’s becoming sort of a regular thing, which I can still afford before school reopens.

Anyway, we were talking about the topic of results and everything. For your information, XP and Les are both graduating next June and shall be part of our country’s elite working population (hopefully), while me and Nala still have another two years of studies to go. We were discussing our results and everything, and quietly I was forming my own thoughts- Les and XP were their usual jovial selves while Nala wasn’t in the best of mood, so I did not want to spoil the mood by exploring deeper issues.

You see, next summer will be my last long holidays of my life (unless I strike Toto or something). Never again will I have a couple of months of free time to laze at home and catch the Olympics/French Open/football etc. Never again will I be able to afford to have last-minute supper outings with my mates after midnight. Never again will I have the time to watch a dozen movies in a week. Never again will I have so much time to blog tons of sh*t about Miss Y.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally looking forward to the day I start work (evidence: here). I mean, all our lives, our parents provided us with the best education their monthly income can afford and for what? For the very day we get our certificate and step into society and work. Well, I look at it this way. With the improvement in healthcare and the healthy lifestyle I adopt, I fully expect myself to live to around 100 years old. So, for a quarter of my life, my parents have provided for me while my only priority is to get decent grades (and break some hearts along the way). So I figure, for the next fifty years, it’s time to repay the debt I owe them and provide for them in whatever ways I can and hopefully, start my own family. By the time I’m 75, my kids will enter the workforce and hence start providing for me while I enjoy my weekly trips to Batam/Bangkok and sh*t.

So, isn’t it fair? Half my life I’m working, the other half I’m enjoying. To those who say studying is torture (especially my tuition kiddos), I say, you know nothing about torture. I have spent my time in Brunei stuck in the middle of God-knows-where for a week living on combat ration; I have spent my time clocking fifteen-hours work days for twenty straight days waiting at tables for an understaffed restaurant. That is why, when my kiddos complain about their studies and stuff, I never fail to give them extra homework. And that is why when my working friends complain about their work and miss appointments with me, I don’t blame them, but rather, I feel for them.

Everybody wishes to kick a ball for a living and be paid the equalivent of a Lamborghini Murciélago every week. But for every Ronaldo, there are a thousand other footballers from Singapore to Swaziland who wait at tables after matches to make ends meet. My point is, not everybody can have his or her dream job, and we all should just make do with what we have. Do you know the great Gabriel Batistuta actually hates his job?

That is why I am totally against the motto “get rich or die trying”. Personally, there is more to life than just getting rich in the shortest amount of time with the least amount of effort. See, I can choose to give tuition to a couple more kiddos and cheat their parents of even more money, but I rather not. I can get twice the pay I’m getting now, but how am I going to find the time and company to spend it with (Wednesday nights notwithstanding)? Look around you. Slow down a little. Breathe in the air. Read my blog. Life is beautiful.

Another point- studying and working are just about as similar as Fernando Torres and Dirk Kuyt. You may be good at understanding concepts and memorising sh*t, but it doesn’t mean you have enough ball-carrying techniques and cock-sucking skills to survive in an office. At the end of the day, it is just another examination, just another piece of paper. That is why to my friends who are feeling down with their results- you are not alone. Remember it’s not the end of the world (it will happen only when Sir Alex retires), and there has to be more to life than just books (for instance, blogs?).

To all my friends who are in their pitiful little cubicles reading my fabulous blog at eight in the morning, don’t worry- I’ll be joining you guys soon enough. It is but a phase of life which everyone has to go through.

And to all my friends who fear working, I say, fear not. It just takes some getting use to. When made to swim or sink, trust me, we will all become Michael Phelps.

I have been reading the news lately, and this sh*t at Serangoon Gardens has been making all the headlines. I am not going to give you a recap, because if you do not know about the issue, then you are not fit to read my blog (how can you find time to read the sh*t I write and not the Straits Times?).

Anyway, I just want to ask those motherf*ckers from the 1,400 households living in Serangoon who signed the petition against them foreigners five simple questions.

1)      Who won us our first medal after 48 years at the recent Beijing Olympics? And weren’t you one of those flag-waving c*nts who greeted them at the airport?

2)      Was the dipsh*t who broke out of his camp with his rifle and ammunition a Singaporean or a foreigner?

3)      Was the motherf*cker who flew first class, drove a Benz and installed gold-plated taps using public donations meant for kidney patients a Singaporean or a foreigner?

4)      Wasn’t the rude asshole who cut into your lane this morning on the PIE without signalling a Singaporean?

5)      Last but not least, does anyone of you recall the 2007 Singapore Cup final? Well, enjoy the wonderful clip HERE. A Tampines Rovers player totally beat the crap out of a SAFFC player, who incidentally comes from the same country as the great Joey Barton. So, my question is, who was the one impersonating Joey Barton? The Singaporean or the foreigner?

Answers on a postcard please.

I hereby dedicate the following poem by Wislawa Szymborska (向左走 向右走) to Miss Y the hot OL whom I met twenty-four hours ago and will most probably never meet again in this life. This poem has taken on a whole new level of meaning for me.

Love at First Sight

Both are convinced

that a sudden surge of emotion bound them together.

Beautiful is such a certainty,

but uncertainty is more beautiful.

Because they didn't know each other earlier, they suppose that

nothing was happening between them.

What of the streets, stairways and corridors

where they could have passed each other long ago?

I'd like to ask them

whether they remember-- perhaps in a revolving door

ever being face to face?

an "excuse me" in a crowd

or a voice "wrong number" in the receiver.

But I know their answer:

no, they don't remember.

They'd be greatly astonished

to learn that for a long time

chance had been playing with them.

Not yet wholly ready

to transform into fate for them

it approached them, then backed off,

stood in their way

and, suppressing a giggle,

jumped to the side.

There were signs, signals:

but what of it if they were illegible.

Perhaps three years ago,

or last Tuesday

did a certain leaflet fly

from shoulder to shoulder?

There was something lost and picked up.

Who knows but what it was a ball

in the bushes of childhood.

There were doorknobs and bells

on which earlier

touch piled on touch.

Bags beside each other in the luggage room.

Perhaps they had the same dream on a certain night,

suddenly erased after waking.

Every beginning

is but a continuation,

and the book of events

is never more than half open.

You are forever in my heart, Car*****.

Remember yesterday I told you about my sh*tty seven days. Well, make that eight days. Here’s what happened.

I woke up early, like super early, and met up with Shrek to go to school to pay my fees. It came up to almost five thousand dollars, but I say that is money well spent. There is a price for everything, and if you tell me for five grand, I could get to see the lovely Miss Y for a year, I’ll bite your hands off. It was only ten o’clock when I dragged my ass to town (my date with the ladies Nokia and Sony, remember?), and the heavens opened up on me with impeccable timing. My Kappa sweater kept me cosy though, and I totally fell asleep on the bus, and the best thing was, I had this wonderful dream of Miss Y and I making out (here).

I arrived at Wheelock Place Nokia Care Centre five minutes before it opened, but still there were at least forty people there already. Singaporeans, they love queuing, don’t there? It was such a downer- Monday morning, grey skies above, in town alone with a faulty mobile phone, and I have to join a queue? F*ck that, I told myself. I headed to Marks & Spencer for some retail therapy first before getting my phone sorted out. And then this unexpected thing happened.

I was back at the Nokia Centre, got my number and found myself a seat and settled down to read the morning papers and enjoy my Café Americano. People who know me know that I do not like to waste time staring into space counting down the seconds. That is why if I am out on the public transport or places where I know I will have to spend time doing next to nothing, I will bring along some papers, Times magazine or National Geographic (I am not one of those kids who lose themselves in the world of PSP). So, I was reading about how the United States Government was bailing out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac (the epitome of hypocrisy, if you ask me), when this OL (orgasmic office lady) asked me for my Life! section.

Well, ever the gentlemen, I gladly obliged. See, I was so engrossed reading that I did not notice this hot OL in her tight shirt and even tighter skirt sitting next to me. Her hair was neat and well taken care of, her nails were obviously manicured, no sign of any crow’s feet, I bet she was no more than thirty-five (just within my age gap limit, plus I like women who look after themselves). “Oh, you’re number 719? I’m next after you”, she said as I handed her the papers. I smiled back and licked my lips used my tongue to wet my cracked lips (damn coffee), as she fluttered her eyelashes at me and sort of gave me a wink. Perhaps something got stuck in her eye. I don’t know, I couldn’t see sh*t clearly as the huge-ass diamond on her ring was blinding me. She must be married, and married to a rich motherf*cker at that. Rich motherf*cker obviously know how to make money but not how to make love. I sensed an opening in the opposition’s defence. Should I thread a through ball or dribble into goal myself? In my head, I was already picturing events unfolding like THIS (Click! Click! Click!).

Guess what? My number came up like five minutes later. What can I say? Story of my life- so near yet so far. She gave me one last mesmerising smile as my fingers touched when I took the papers back from her. A million ‘what might have been’ descended upon me. I left the place feeling I just missed an open goal in the 90^th minute. Not the best of feelings, I can assure you. So, I headed over to Wisma Atria to collect my fifty dollar remote control, and at the traffic lights, the drizzle suddenly became a huge downpour- I suppose even the heavens were weeping for me. I took out some papers to shield myself from the rain as I Usain Bolt-ed for the nearest shelter.

I just about reached Wisma before my papers turned into wet toilet paper, and then I noticed some black stuff on my fingers. What the f*ck? Don’t tell me my brand new sweater has ran its colour in the f*cking rain. Upon further inspection, my sweater seemed fine. And then I realise that the black stuff was ink. What the f*ck? From the Straits Times? No way. I took a second look at the papers and noticed something written at the top right hand corner. It looked like a Caroline, but it could have been a Carlyn or Carmela- I could only make out the “Car” as the rest of the word was smudged. Below it was some numbers starting with a 948, not too sure about the rest, but definitely another 8 towards the end.

F*ck me. The OL wrote her f*cking number. And now, it’s f*cking destroyed by God’s tears. What the f*ck? I did not miss an open goal, I f*cking scored an own goal. Life can be really brutal at times, and no words could describe my anguish. It totally reminded of me of that scene from 向左走 向右走 (here), where the two lovebirds lost each other’s number in the rain. But for me, I lost her number and she doesn’t have mine. She must waiting for the call that will never come and be thinking to herself that the charming guy she met was a f*cking fagot like Elton John. F*ck me.

Now you know why it was the sh*tiest of the eight days. F*ck.

Tuesday morning, and I’m not in the best of mood (more on that later). First, for all those who intend to catch Bangkok Dangerous (version 2.0 starring Nicholas Cage) this Thursday, let me save you ten bucks.

spoiler alert

In the final scene, Nic Cage shoots himself in the head.

end spoiler.

*slow clap*

[Source: Pajiba]

Finally, I have some ‘me’ time. The past week has been super busy as it was the school holidays for K-Fad and company, and their parents have asked for extra classes, which I am only glad to oblige (more classes = more income). Then again, it’s not like they have anything to worry about- after months under my expert guidance, K-Fad sure as hell knows his flop from his river. He is right on schedule to compete in the inaugural God of Gamblers tournament next year at the Marina Bay Sands.

Anyway, it has been a lousy last seven days for me. Firstly, Man Citeh was bought by some rich motherf*cker from the Middle East who is hell bent on turning them into the biggest club in the world in the shortest amount of time. As you know, we already lost twice to Sven’s Citeh last season, so you can understand my concern at the latest development. Then again, spare a thought for Liverpool and Arsenal, whose fans should be sh*tting themselves worrying about the prospect of UEFA Cup football next season.

Secondly, the results are out. First, the bad news- it is positive. The good news- there is no guarantee I am the father as the slut has been sleeping around. No, I’m kidding! I’m talking about my examination results. I passed all of them except for the one I expected to fail- the irony of ironies, I am a Business student, and I failed my Introduction to Business and Management module. It’s like my mates who go clubbing every Wednesday night (ONLY Wednesdays) and tell me they go there ‘for the music’. I don’t get it- what’s so great about Mambo Jambo anyway? I go there for the chicks and the chicks alone. Hey, at least I’m honest about it, okay.

Thirdly, my micro hi-fi remote control failed me, and it’s less than two years old! My last hi-fi lasted me eight bloody years, for crying out loud. And f*ck Sony- that bloody remote control not only cost me fifty bucks, I have to wait a week for it, plus I have to place my order and self-collect from Wisma. How f*cked up is that? And now, I have lost 50% of the functions on my hi-fi as the panel has only eight buttons on it (I suppose it is MICRO hi-fi for a reason).

Fourthly, my N73 failed me over the weekend. I know I am planning on buying the iPhone and everything, but its untimely demise has come six months too early (my contract’s only up next April, and StarHub doesn’t sell iPhone till next year at the earliest, while I am waiting for a later version as Steve Jobs irons out the issue with his software). So, busy me has got to head to town tomorrow to send it for repair (if remote controls these days are anything to go by, I am looking at a four figure sum for my Nokia product), collect THAT fifty dollar remote control at the same time, and also drop by Ikea to look for some boxes to hold my study materials from last year. After that I will be heading over to K-Fad for more Texas hold’em techniques. What a day.

See, I hate to be busy (well, being kept busy by on the dance floor is a totally different matter altogether). I like spending time on my own, doing my own sh*t, you know what I mean? That is why this past week has been am absolute nightmare, and when school reopens in seven days’ time, every single week (for the foreseeable future) will resemble the week that I just had. I will have lessons the first three days of the week, make-up classes at the weekend, tuition for at least three nights a week, and I got to squeeze in one study day with Shrek, supper with my mates, my soccer action, American TV serials and Operation Hulk Hogan. Plus you all know Wednesday nights are reserved for checking out the latest tunes at Phuture.

So, thank God I am still single and all the girls who informed me they have missed their period are not pregnant (at least not yet). I seriously don’t have the time for anyone else.

Over the weekend, something big happened- a former player went came back to the player fraternity (you may note my recent obsession with this word after watching the movie Wanted). As this friend of mine prefers to keep his identity confidential (to protect his future prospects with the ladies), let’s just call him A**. Honestly, after the huge mayhem that ensued the last time round after I chose to blog about one of my mates’ relationship issues, I have thought long and hard before blogging about this. For as long as I can remember, I have always tried to keep my friend’s personal lives out of me blog, but at times, I just have to get them involved simply because they provide me with such rich content to work with, and I cannot resist discussing the issues with you fine people out here on blogosphere. Anyway, this time around, I have taken extra precaution- I have seek permission first with the party involved, and I have posted a warning beforehand. So here goes- you b*tchy little c*nts out there, just read my blog, masturbate yourself and go to bed, please don’t go around spreading sh*t about sh*t you don’t know. Thank you very much.

Well, it’s not that big an issue like two-timing or a broken condom, but it remains a fairly typical reason for break-ups. Faith, or religion, and more specifically, a clash of one’s religion with his or her partner. This is kind of a big issue, especially so for me, though I have never encountered such an important issue before- my relationships usually end after the sex got boring for me or she found out that I wasn’t entirely frank about who Amanda/Betty/Claire etc was. For the record, I am a Buddhist, at least that’s what it says on my identity card, but it cannot be further away from the truth. I feel I am more of a freethinker, but I do believe there is a God- I just don’t believe that burning pieces of paper will make them any richer up in the heavens, or they are so dumb as to send his son down to save mankind. I mean, he has a son? You are saying he had sex? With who? Is his dick like as mighty as he is? And burning incense paper? What the f*ck? The more you burn, the worse the ozone layer gets, and He can’t see sh*t from above, then how the f*ck is he suppose to look out for us?

So, A** is a freethinker like me, and his girl is a Christian. Well, that means no premarital sex for A**, but at the same time, if she accidentally happens to get pregnant (orally or anally or whatever goes on in the bedroom), he’s going to have to use a stick to beat the sh*t out of her bloated tummy as her religion forbids abortion as well. That saves A** half a grand, and if you ask me, that’s money well saved. Anyway, jokes aside (I promised A** I’ll be serious), both parties knew the consequences of their relationship before they jumped into it with both feet. I suppose both parties assumed that it is not much of an issue at the point in time when they just got together, but slowly, one starts to think of the future and this comes to represent a huge problem.

You see, Christians can only marry Christians. To them, it’s like “if you love me, follow me into Christianity”. I say, f*ck that- if you love me, accept me for who I am, not who I will become because of you. Come on, I believe God created us and He wants us to be happy, whether it’s with a Christian, Buddhist or Infidel. I believe He is kind and gracious, and he will let us choose whoever our eternal happiness is. I am not really into the religion thing, but I have spent my fair share of time sitting in a church with either my friends or relatives before, and I tell you, it’s like one of them Mathematics lectures I used to have in college; the only difference being there is a rock band at the back of the hall and the lecturer pastor will occasionally ask all of us to stand and belt out some Jesus golden hit singles.

A** has his reasons for not wanting to convert to Christianity, and I totally agree with him on that. A religion is a religion, love is love, never ever put the two together. I mean, it’s not right if I become a Christian for your sake, and I sit in church every Sunday pretending to mouth the lyrics to the songs I barely give a sh*t about while wondering what movie we are going to catch next. And what if we break up? Can you like un-baptise me? It will never work, I tell you. That is why I always say, you should never step into a church for the sake of anything other than your love of God (*to the sound of thunderous applause*).

Well, A** was willing to compromise- like to each his own, you have your God, I have mine. But no, Jesus doesn’t work that way- rules are rules, either Christianity or nothing. So, they had a heated discussion the other night and sort of ended things over the phone (it was only slightly after their one-year anniversary). Both parties were left broken hearted and I had to play Cupid (not my favourite role, to say the least). Well, things are still kind of like in the grey zone, and I shall not comment on things I am not sure of. So, I am just saying, this religion thing, it definitely plays a part in driving down our already pathetic birth rates. I bet if A** is with any other girl, that poor girl would already have had half a dozen abortions by now, given A**’s super-charged sex drive. So, I hope your Majesty Lee Hsien Loong is reading this and he has better do something about it before the next National Day Rally.

A** is not the first, and definitely won’t be the last to realise that at the end of the day, more often than not, them Christians will choose their faith over their love. Sad, but true. It’s like those girls falling head over heels for them bad boys like me, thinking that their love for me will change me into instant father material.

In your f*cking dreams, ladies, in your f*cking dreams.