Come Hither.

Back then.




Holy mothers (!!) Cardio is kick-butt. Did so many sets today I lost count. Weights are killer. I had difficulty shampooing my hair because everything felt wobbly.

I think I work out too much because the injuries from the old track days are acting up. Cursed knees and ankles, must be all the hurdling. I always knew those darn hurdles are up to no good. See, see! Exactly my point.

Lynette, admit it, you're just plain lazy.

Okay. I'm lazy : /





I'm either crazy flushed, otherwise I must have overworked myself, somehow affecting the barely-there brain. I talked to Mr Bartender today after he made Sex On The Beach. That sounds wrong. After he made the cocktail Sex On The Beach, I beg your pardon.



Me: Can I have some murukoo please?
Mr Bartender: *left hand shake cocktail, right hand scoop a cup full of murukoo*

Ten minutes later ...

Me (scapegoat): Hello. My asshole friends want somemore.
Mr Bartender: KNN. SI GINAHS. EAT SO MANY MURUKOO. WTF. CHOKE AND DIE BETTER. I WORK HERE SO LONG, NOTHING TO EAT SO I KOPE ALL THE MURUKOO AND EAT FOR BREAKFAST, DINNER, LUNCH SIA. POORTHING LIKE DUNNO WHAT SHIT. SEX ON THE BEACH NOT ENOUGH SIBOH? STILL MUST EAT SO MUCH MURUKOO. MY MURUKOO. CHEEBS.



Okay, joke joke.

It went more like this ...

Mr Bartender: asdfghjkl;
/smash beer bottle and stab self repeatedly.



Anyway, I seriously think he wanted to bash me. What up with the whole murukoo eating spree yo. It would be a miracle we didn't finish the whole tub man. I don't get it. Murukoo tastes like fried taopok, lah. Maybe it's just me.


And what the hell is make the both of us scapegoats because we pangseh you guys for satay spree, huh, Cedrick (?!)

We'll battle it out at gym tomorrow. Not.






Okay. This is it. I'm going to buy a diary for my dad. Having raise me for eighteen years, close nineteen, it is time I do something for my folks. It's now or never. Now is not yet too late. So let now be it.

Sialahxz, act philos.
Cannot is it?





I think I belong to the borderline case of Major Identity Crisis. Because I like going shopping with guys. And no, I don't drag them out to carry paperbags or whatever guys are expected to do. Instead, I follow them to shop for their manly stuff. Shirts, formals, tees, jeans, ties, name it. And secretly, I like it when they ask for my opinions. I feel ... respected. Trust me, I'm that close to cross-dressing.




Bogus, is correct. I need to sleep it off. My body aches.






Believe it, because I just typed this post in my semi-conscious state. Pigs will fly tonight.






Massive Break.