The moon is out tonight, and I can see punks starting a fire with candles, matches and dried leaves in the middle of the park my window overlooks. Lantern festival, mooncake festival, whatever the name, I am getting too old for both lanterns and mooncakes. So, after a full of sh*t, guys treat gals like pieces of meat, attempt at American humour entry, you know what usually follows is always a thought-provoking, emotion-inducing, sh*t-stirring one.

So, girls, girls, girls, they will always be around, and guess what, for the third (and final year, fingers crossed) running, I share the same class as Miss f*cking Y. Totally unbelievable, it surely has to be another sign from God (for the third year running), and like always, I can only wish her happiness with her current boyfriend (aka Donut Boy). So, I have five classes this year- one with Tattoo Girl, one with Miss Y, ZZZ and f*ck-face, another one with my part-time friends, one with a newfound friend and one alone. It is fair to say I am exposed to all genres of the opposite sex with the timetable I have got. A little update on my newfound friend- her name is Georgia (no sh*t that is her name, the country that went to war with mother Russia) and she has two eyes and a mouth. I spotted a ring on her index finger for two consecutive weeks, but like my great mentor Ong Bak has inculcated in me, a ring does not represent an obstacle, but merely a challenge to prove one’s ability to entrap one’s prey given the circumstances.

So, I am back and I have got so many things to do, so many people to meet, so many problems to listen to. Where do I even begin? All right, let us start with the guy with the most interesting quotes, Ong Bak. Well, at long last, his unfaithful ways can no longer be termed as two-timing anymore, because, no, he did not break it off with the slut, but rather, his girlfriend of three years (Es) dumped him. Yes, I know, what the f*ck right? He is totally following in my footsteps from six years ago, but what can I say? Certain things one can only learn the hard way, only when it is gone does one realise its importance.

I can still remember shopping for Valentine’s Day present with Ong Bak a couple of years back for Es. He was like, buying this sh*tload of material and making her a card/booklet thing with photos and stuff like the ticket to the first movie they caught together and the receipt from the restaurant they spent their first anniversary and sh*t, and you know, I just thought, she was the one Ong Bak was going to marry. But fast-forward three years and one slut’s entrance into Ong Bak’s life later, here they are, at the junction of their lives. Will their paths ever cross again? Only God knows. Perhaps Cupid too.

Matters of the heart are so f*cking unpredictable sometimes, you never know when one is going to change. People do crazy things in the name of love, and the crazy things here sound beautiful and sweet, provided it is not something like leaving you, his girlfriend-of-three-years, for the ‘love’ of some slut he barely knows. So obviously, Es is hurting and at a lost what to do and all I have are words of comfort, meaningless little words compared to the turmoil she is going through, wondering if Ong Bak can be trusted again, the battle between her heart and mind raging.

Then there is this friend I got to know recently (SC), who had her engagement called off because after five long years, the dickhead finally decided to venture over the other side to check on the colour of the grass. Here is the part where I tell you it is a f*cking small world because coincidentally, the girl this jackass was going out with happens to be my college classmate. What the f*ck, right? Ten bucks say I know the next girl he f*cks. Anyway, the sh*t here is the f*cktard was lying to both parties, and neither knew of each other’s existence, his out-of-control pencil-dick rising as fast as his Pinocchio’s nose.

Come on, seriously, what a dumbf*ck douchebag! Which brainless cunt tells his fiancée that he does not love her anymore and leave to be with a girl he is dating for one month? Yes, one f*cking month. All right, no disrespect, but if the chick in question was Megan Fox or Kate Beckinsale, then hell yeah, I would leave my wives for one night with either of them. In the end, the sack of sh*t confessed to my classmate and she told him to GTFO, so he went crawling on his hands and knees back to SC, who in turn kicked the dipsh*t in the balls before telling him to GTFO too, and oh, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out, you lying son of a b*tch.

Pardon my antagonism, but I do despise two-timers, despite what my friends have to say. Well, as we get older (as in really, older, not eighteen or something), infidelity and messy breakups are becoming the norm rather than the exception. We used to pretend each new sexual experience was some life-altering event, but now, a condom is the glass slipper for our generation- you slip on when you meet a stranger and you dance all night.  Things are getting more and more complicated, and it is as if our problems have evolved from Gossip Girl level to Californication standard, and perhaps in another ten years, we will be talking about ugly divorces and who get the kids.

Lastly, remember the childhood friend of mine who ended his five-year-old relationship while I was away? Yeah, he was right, his (ex) girlfriend really did cheat on him (with her forty-year-old manager). Unless that manager in question is Jose Mourinho, I cannot understand why one choose to stray after five years, five f*cking years. See, this friend of mine has been working hard, mostly seven days a week doing his family business of selling second-hand cars, saving all his money for the big wedding next year. To him, that girl was definitely ‘wife-material’, and in his own words, ‘those dreams we had, all remained just that- dreams’. He was kind of emotional relating to me his story, and you know me, I am never comfortable with tears (be it from the ladies or the gentlemen), and although I am very much a card-carrying cynic of love, a part of me really wanted to grant him his happy ending with the girl.

Just so you know, he and I may be friends for seventeen years, but we cannot be any more different. I have always been the thrill-seeker, the one who does all the crazy things mothers never wanted their sons do, the kind of boy mothers never want to see leaving their daughters’ rooms in the morning, the type who live (and die) by his own rules. But him, he is the homely, obedient mummy’s boy, the one who believes in happily-ever-afters, the one whose dictionary never contained whiskey, women and weed until his breakup this August. See, one can never hurt deeply unless one has loved deeply, and he is the type who is willing to walk on charcoal to the end of the world just for some Hello Kitty hand-phone pouch the love of his life desires, and that is why he cried her rivers, lakes and the whole f*cking Indian Ocean.

So to put things in perspective, for the past five years, he has had a grand total of one pussy and as a bonus, his heart is now broken. Me, I violated a couple of dozens of hairy donuts the past half a decade but most importantly, my heart is still in one piece, albeit one big, frosty piece. But hey, in hindsight, what would you have had? Well, the saying goes that when we were younger, we were more insecure, but when we are now older, our problems are deeper, but we are more equipped to handle them.

Or are we?