how to spell bullshit

contradict yourself – say “i’m not drunk baby”, proceed to walk in a zig zag manner.

repeat yourself – “did i kick the old man down the stairs?…really? did i kick the old man down the stairs? did i? really?”

be emphatic – “you’re so…” “No” “…can you let me talk and not…” “No” “…stop inter-” “No”

state your arguing prowess, do not back up your statements – “no, you were wrong. and i don’t need to prove it. i don’t. i don’t have to prove anything.”

make bad excuses – “i’m sorry i yelled at you but that’s what i do for a living”

blow things out of proportion – see a girl talk to a black guy named bob, proceed to yell, “you think bob is so hot?! all black men are princes right? every black guy is your friend. don’t talk. i know. you love black guys right. i get it. i get it. i understand. you don’t say anything.”

tbc.

hey shawty.

to my dear best friend who

-tackled me to the floor, twice

-fell on her ass, many times

-thought she was spiderman

-wanted to gp to vivocity at 1 in the morning

-scratched posters off the floor

-had a drumstick fall out her mouth in the most unglam fashion

-approached total strangers to complain about her earring

-complained about people singing her birthday songs

-called a man ROSE

-burped in my face

well done you blabbering idiot. much love.

Brain Not Working

it’s been 24 full hours since i slept.

might not sound like alot, but i am quite happy i didn’t convulse and collapse in tutorial while trying not to piss myself.

thanks also to spss tutorial – for once i did my homework. all of it. and you didn’t check. CB.

Vegetarian

i got no beef today.

literally. i had salmon with some fancy sauce and mashed potatoes. i should have had the beef though, cos my friend had wyagu and she let me try it. damn that shit is good. so while i was racing through my dinner, i was wondering to myself…

oi. what do you have to complain about today you ungrateful bitch.

nothing much at that moment. the food was shiok (should have had the beef dammit) and the company was good and the alcohol was flowing (very important)… so what to do. complain about men. which then just makes me complain about myself.

i realised that, when it comes to men, everything (almost) i get upset about can somehow be argued to be my fault. that is not because it’s my fault, but because i’ve currently gotten into the habit of trying to talk myself out of being upset. also because i am very good at twisting arguments. so i’ve realised (kind of) that every frustrating action… that stems from whatever frustrating double-standard reasoning… that the frustrating (pattern?) men in my life inflict upon me… can somehow be my fault. because, sometimes, i behave the exact same way they do. so depressing.

i should have listened when jayson recommended the wagyu rump steak. see? i got no beef… and it’s my fault.

Come Back to Me, Baby.

i hate it when you put all your effort into something, someone… and all you get is heartache and regret.

i put my heart and soul on the line. i spend time with you, i care for you. i defend you when my mother tells me i’m addicted to you. i spend all my money on you. all my money! i buy you food, i clean up after you. i want to protect you. and yet, you run towards the only thing that can hurt you. why do you do this to me?

why you damn guppies! WHY! cb. why must you purposely swim towards the damn aliens when i am trying to kill them. I ALREADY SHOOT UNTIL ONE CORNER FOR YOU. you have the rest of the cb tank to swim. cb. people trying to help you here you know.

cb.

Pour Some Sugar on Yourself

now. i got something i don’t understand. and that’s not even cos i had too much to drink. too much motherfaaking teKILLa that’s what the faak i’m talking about. that damn thing tastes like someone caught fire and pissed it out.

okay. so. why does being friends with someone make them treat you worse than some mofo they don’t know. and by treat you worse, i mean, say your name like it’s a cuss word. like it’s baaad. like he’s the pope, and he gotta say he’s gay. why can the mofo go,

this song goes out to ying. this song also goes out to xxx. where’s xxx? there, xxx. the lovely xxx. enjoy!

motherfaaker don’t even know xxx. i know cos bitch told me he’s never seen that ugly faaker before. now… to people who think i’m jealous… come on man. hell yeah i am. and not only cos we’re friends friends and all that mmmullshit. i know it’s the job requirement. perform, be nice, wink and smile like you got seizures. 

ok. do your job. but, so. i can’t get a proper “this-song-goes-out-to-you” mmmullshit? bitch can’t say my name so i can bloody hear it?

i beg, force, push and drag all my rich friends down there mofo. well happy friday pussy magnet, i’mma NOT drag my friends who spend alot of kaching-kaching down again, so pour some sugar on yourself motherfaaker.

Your Shipment of FAIL has Arrived

short of turning my baby blog into G-ma’s own Shop of Horrors, i just had to get it out of my system that she is a foxy old brat. and not the Megan Fox way. i just hit up my dictionary widget man, and that blue box says it means “wily, cunning“, and also mentions something about smelling rank like a fox. in fact, the “sexually attractive Megan Fox foxy” is number 5 on that list, so in case anyone thinks i have some weird mature-woman-fetish, Miss Webster just whoopped your ass.

back to my G-ma.

my mom thinks my granny is a poor old woman with bad eyesight. WRONG. she sits back on the couch and she can see the damn olympic country codes on the top left corner of the screen. she can see those little scrolling marquees on the bottom of the tv screen on channel news asia. yeah, my grandma is blind as a bat alright.

my mom thinks my grandma is hard of hearing. WRONG. she can hear all sorts of shit. she can hear me playing the mr brown show on my portable speakers (READ: NOT LOUD) in my room through a locked door, and she’s gonna come in the next day and ask where my boyfriend is. hard of hearing my ass.

and my favourite one is this: mom thinks grandma is weak and fragile. YOU HAVE FAILED THE EXAM WOMAN. one night i’m playing music in my room, i step out for a glass of water (or alcohol whatever), open the door and i have just won the grandmotherf@cking lottery.

my grandma is standing outside my door, trying to listen in on me and j. holiday. i can’t even close my mouth cos i’m shocked shitless and that windbag is already half way back to her room, skipping like a little school girl.

…skipping like a damn kid. can you believe that mmmullshit.

Grand Mother-F

my grandmother just got pissed off. yelling and shit. among the many things i don’t understand about that crinkled-up windbag is these two pieces of mmmmmuuulshit.

• why she always got to yell about me to my mom in dialect, like i don’t understand that shit.
• why she always threatens to move out and live in the salvation army, cos that is never gonna happen.

now i don’t speak all that stuff, although i wish i did, cos it would make watching drama serials on cable alot easier. diu le lou mo ok, that’s all i know. and obviously i don’t use that. but that doesn’t mean i don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. telling my mom to tell me not to raise my voice at her. hell i’d shut up if i didn’t have to breathe your mustard gas stench every damn day, grandma. wouldn’t kill you to take a damn bath now and then.

and she can move to the salvation army for all i give a hot diggity damn. hot diggity for emphasis. cos she has been saying that since two years ago, and that shit is never gonna happen. yeah right she comes over to take care of me. that, and the big tv, the nice couch, the toaster oven to heat up her stinking (literally) food, the space to put all her rubbish, and the fridge. man. the fridge has got one shelf for her shit, and sure there’s stuff that stays there one or two days. but there’s been stuff in her shelf in the fridge that been there for about two months.

i bloody counted.