jon's blog

i could go on for 40 days and 40 nights about my blog title and bore you to bits and pieces with 10,000 different ideas i actually had for the name of this blog but because of the 500 characters limit that is imposed upon this mechanism which, by the way, is supposed to promote free speech, i shall shorten it to just two words basically describing what the hell this is all about and who this hell belongs to.
Saturday, June 30, 2007

project 355: the queen's versus the parent's

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there are two very different sets of English being spoken at home. i wish i could say it was more of domestic expat spat of the British language against the American, but alas, it isn't. it's the parents' brand of heartland English that i'm referring to here. having been exposed to the parents and their daily reinforcements of a strong co-relation between homosexuals and hell, i can testify to the mediocre state of English that the parents communicate with. and perhaps one of the reasons why their 'please-turn-straight' pep talks don't work is simply because of their bizarre phonetics when it comes to conversing in English. my linguistic mind starts wandering away when a comma is not used in the right place, or in worse scenarios, at all.

'Why isn't the father using the comma to pause for a breather? He's using a lot of breath for one sentence, isn't he? Oh my. I think he's getting breathless. Is he raising his voice now? Or is it the incorrect usage of an exclamation mark? Where are all the full stops? What?'

all that over one comma, eh?

so as i was sitting in the train post-gym today, it just dawned upon me that i can actually recall quite a few words that the parents use on a daily basis that really make me go into stitches internally (i don't laugh at home unless there's no one around).

Berlay/Berlaysia (Malay/Malaysia)
a sore point that the second ex-boyfriend (he's Malay and the parents know about him) used to take jibes at me with, this is perhaps one of the reasons why the mother has almost close to nil brown-skinned friends. i feel like BER-rying my head underground whenever i hear this one.

Kaff (Cafe)
this one belongs to the father. for some reason, he ignores the little accent over the 'e' in 'cafe' (i can't seem to find the key to insert accents in blogger) and says it as kaff. it's potentially embarrassing when one tries to invite strange-looking men back into the house and the father suggests the both of us taking our little tryst out to a public kaff. of course, that would prolly not happen given that the father would prolly welcome people i invite into my house with a broom and bible rather than with open arms.

Flim/Filim (Film/Film)
i think many Singaporean kids can totally relate to this. in fact, i remember one occasion during secondary school when i asked if any of my classmates' parents said 'Filim' instead of 'Film', practically half the class raised their hands. good conversation topic to have. now if only i could turn this into a pick-up line.

Pronography (Pornography)
i remember this vividly because this was used the first time the father discovered his son surfing porn. and not of the right kind even. i was relating my experience to a friend the next day (minus the content of the pornography i surfed) and once again, we discovered that it's a common ailment that many Singapore parents have. the whole discussion developed into a lame joke about watching shrimps having live sex over the internet.

Cos-Tape (Scotch Tape)
no, it's not preference to dress up as a manga character that looks like an ol' skool cassette tape. but rather the stuff that one can use as an alternative to nipple stickers and putting up Falcon videos posters on your walls. this crime belongs to the father.

Botter-bottle (Water-bottle)
during the primary school days, the mother was very insistent that i brought an umbrella and a cheesy Mickey Mouse water-bottle everywhere with me. given the typical schooling kid's bag is already being lugged around rather than carried, i didn't welcome any additional weight. besides, i took the school bus and water coolers were everywhere. no weather elements or dehydration risks to brave. so it was on purpose, that i forgot to bring both the umbrella and the water-bottle all the time. the mother always knew though, and she would come rushing to the door just as i was about to leave home, screaming 'Jon!! You forgot to bring your botter-bottle again!!!!' it was about 6.30 in the morning and loud enough for the neighbors to hear. i could already imagine them pelting us with yesterday's dinner and expired vegetables. of course, if only i brought along my umbrella (ella, ella, eh, eh, eh) as well to cover my head from shame.

Frida (Fridae)
the first time the mother discovered i was gay and surfing gay personals, she broached me about it with little success. i thought that for once, the mother suddenly was refined and understood the fine art of Frida Kahlo. alas, it was a grammatical error and a rather laughable one at that.

it's actually a plan that works very well for me because the only time that the parents and i converse is when they attempt their same old straight conversion thing with me. other conversations are just everyday questions like 'are you coming home for dinner tonight' and stuff along those lines. those last less than a minute actually. the pep talks normally lasts about ten to twenty minutes. and my mind always wanders when they crash through the pronunciation of certain words. which basically keeps me entertained while they repeat the fact that i'm going to hell over my love of the penis.

so for now, i'm keeping the queeny english to myself.


Friday, June 29, 2007

fucking hell

brain block. can't seem to produce no shit this week.


Tuesday, June 26, 2007

project 355: my one-time-only policy

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i may not be so presumptuous as to claim that i'm a veteran of the gay saunas that's filled with strange encounters of anonymous sex. but if there's one thing that i've learned from years of visitng the gay baths, it's the importance of withholding your contact numbers from these random strangers. no matter how good-looking they are, no matter how many abdominal pacs they have, no matter how many inches they've inherited... it's still never wise to just give away you cellphone number without giving it at least a second thought. underneath that sexually-active exterior, you never know what's really lurking. violent tendencies? over-dependency? a possessive nature? a scat queen? this is why i reject almost every attempt from people who want to keep in touch outside the bathhouse. and to do this, i wield my trusty weapon, the 'one-time-only' policy.

'Oh i practice a one-time-only policy so i make it a point to not keep in contact with people i meet at the spa. Thanks for understanding.' it almost always works, given that most Asian men are very accommodating by nature and don't question my silly little policy.

of course, there are the few insistent ones whom i made the mistake of giving away my contacts. i remember this particular chap that kept pestering me for my number throughout the sex. thinking it was a very charming act, he asked for my number halfway through a blow job. the only thought going through my mind at that point of time was 'Teeth. Teeth! TEETH!'. i immediately succumbed to his threats and promised him my number. alas, this random stranger turned out to be a 'hooker'. not in the literal sense of someone who offers lap dances for wads of cash. but in the metaphoric whereby one is constantly trying to call at least seven or eight times a day to 'hook' up once again. just because i stick my penis into your ass a lot of times within an hour, that doesn't give you the right to do the same when it comes to calling me.

besides, i've realized that after all my years of sex with men, i prefer intercourse without any feelings or emotional shit involved. no passionate kisses which might lead to feelings of attraction. not too much holding of hands. and definitely no moaning of my name when i poke you in the behind. basically, sex without the follow-ups. the only strings i would like to see attached when it comes to my sex, are the ones beginning with G and wedged between a man's butt crevice.

the only time i broke my policy was during the period of Mr. Raffles whom i met by chance at the spa. it was initially the sex that made me want to keep contact. after the moans and groans whereby he got a chance to speak proper English, i discovered it was the accent. when i spent the night over at his parent's place, it was the three-storey Orchard Road apartment that came complete with rooftop jacuzzi and a very nice view of the Marriott. we finally came back full circle to sex, which was what put me off in the end. he had what i defined as the 'erected yet flaccid' penis. getting a hoard of Thai elephants via cargo lorries into my bumhole is way easier than putting his dick in. i think alcohol played a part in destroying our sexual relationship actually. but who am i to say? i was equally drunk as well. prolly wasn't concentrating on my sphincter-kegal exercises. oh well, that was a one-off incident.

alas, one-off is an old term now, because i gave away my number at another spa visit about a month ago. an older man of about 30 plus with a butt so muscular and tight that you could ziplock frozen vegetables in it and still have them coming out really fresh, albeit stained with fecal matter and perhaps not that frozen. i guess it was a spur of the moment decision, not having had such mind-blowingly good sex in quite a long time. i gave my number away in the hopes of re-creating that orgasmic explosion of colors in my mind once again. alas, till today, all i see are loads of irritating black and white and regret.

on that same night when i gave older man my number, he called me at least three times, two of which were missed calls and one of the which i refused to pick up. my philosophy is that it's absolutely uncool to call someone whom you've just had sex with, on the same day the deed was done. people need their time and space, post-orgasm. or at least i do. the next day, older man called again and i was quite the bastard for not picking up any of his calls. i was even more put off when i received four missed calls from him before lunch time. it was because of this, that i decided to not keep in contact with him. two weeks went by as the calls took a half-life of their own. from nearly twelve a day, it gradually tailed down to a diminished one a day. sometimes there would be guilt-inciting SMSes that asked things like 'is it something i said?' they made me feel very horrid about myself and i would think thoughts of flagellation and self-mutilation.

so you can imagine how weird and awkward it was to bump into this same guy again at the spa today. and it was a really bad time to have met. because prior to this encounter, i had already went through three sessions of sex with other men. i was starting to have that 'erected-yet-flaccid' syndrome which meant that i definitely couldn't perform anymore without the help of say medication or divine intervention by the hand of God (that didn't really come out right did it?). but guilt for not taking older man's phone calls overwhelmed me and i decided, 'Oh what the hell, let's just do it and get it over with'. older man and i made awkward conversation throughout the sex, updating each other on the ongoings in our lives. at one point, he even asked 'Is Jon really your name?'. i confirmed that it was and after that, he was moaning my name throughout the rest of the sex. a real turn off for me because i tend to associate it with dependence, a trait which i don't really like in my men.

older man claimed that he lost his phone and didn't have my number anymore. which actually explains why i haven't been receiving any of the incessant phone calls for nearly a fortnight to come. he tried asking for my number which i refused for obvious reasons. and this time, it was his turn to be turned off. he immediately withdrew my schlong from whatever orifice it was in at that time, and proceeded to put on his towel. i could smell the pungent aroma of rejection while i lay down on the bed with the 'erected-yet-flaccid' thing in my hand. older man tried again to get my number and i was still adamant about not giving it away.

but he was not giving up so easily. while i was changing downstairs he caught up with me once again, and basically invited me to walk with him to where his car was parked. left with no choice, we made the short trip to the City Hall train station. he started telling me more things about his life: how work was going, his love life, how i resembled his first ex-boyfriend, just minus the goatee and much skinnier, etc. general things, which taken into consideration the context of the situation, were what i assumed more attempts to convince me to give away my number (especially the first ex-boyfriend bit). i politely refused him and made the nearest detour to a shopping mall, giving some lame excuse to boot.

it was at that point of time when we parted, that the pangs of guilt finally got to me. it was definitely wrong on my part to have given away my contacts and false hopes that we could still meet up and perhaps go into something like a sexual relationship. but after the excessive missed calls and guilty SMSes, perhaps i had a reason to reject after all. not lessening the guilt is the fact that i did the rejection with nil SMSes of explanations or replies at all. it's not the first time it has happened. and knowing my obstinate self, don't think it'll be the last too.

this is why other than my 'erected-yet-flaccid' penis, my 'one-time-only' policy must also stand.


Sunday, June 24, 2007

project 355: post nocturnal updates and issues about $$$

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apologies for not having updated for the past few days. of course, before you start casting the first stone upon me, these apologies are not without valid reason and excuses. the night shift has taken it's toll on me apparently. i've gained one kg from a diet of oily Indian-muslim food and McDonald's for three out of the the four nights that i've done. i've realized that my skin has become as dry as a Mediterranean prune. and to crown it off, i'm still not getting proper beauty rest. i've discovered that i have a sensitive sleep cycle that follows a 'sleep-at-a-proper-time-or-don't-sleep-at-all-you-sick-Masochist' philosophy. all of this has basically led to a short bout of lowered immune resistance and eventually to flu and tonsillitis, prolly acquired from the mother who currently has been down with the flu for nearly four days to come. this is basically the only time i can technically say 'the mother and i share bodily substances'. bodily substances, in this case, referring to the influenza virus of course. she's still having the flu now and i'm still getting only four hours of sleep a night.

the past few days though, have been revolving around all things fiscal (i've always wanted to use that word in my blog!). for the past few days, my bank account has been as active as a four hundred baht a night patpong toyboy during the tourist season. and in Bangkok, it seems that every time you go there, it's THE tourist season. sigh... if only it were tourist season everyday for my toyboy of a bank account too. metaphors aside, a substantial amount of money has materialized in my account on Friday night. i have no idea where it's from and there's no bank statement indicative of anything yet.

internet banking revealed that it's from a local bank and under the banking code of MER. i checked up my now-defunct bank account booklet and learned that MER translates into MEPS Receipt. so what the hell is MEPS? another search with google revealed that MEPS stood for MAS Electronic Payment System. so now what in the heavens in MAS? seriously, these acronyms are really getting on my nerves. then again, i would have known what MAS is (Monetary Association of Singapore) if i'm more regular with the reading of the newspapers. which i'm obviously not.

the father's advice now is to keep the money aside and not touch a single cent of it. he thinks that it's either a scam from the banks to lend people money without their permission or it's just simply a case of mistaken bank account. methinks the latter. still, the father being the father just applies his advice regardless of whether it's accepted or not. the thousand dollars now resides in his account for safekeeping. i'm not worry about the father spending away the money. God and his love affair with Him prevents the father from committing a mortal crime like embezzlement. it's more of a case of awkwardness when it comes to asking back for the money.

in the miraculous event, that the money somehow rightfully belongs to me (and i think it does actually), the father would want to hear about plans of putting aside part of the thousand dollars for savings. when i say 'part', i'm referring to at least seven hundred dollars and above. which is all good if not for the fact that i'm a libran and like living a life of psuedo-luxury. i'm not rich, but at least i can try to act like i'm rich, no? well that would have to wait until i call the bank tomorrow to find out from whence the money comes.

i'm living in somewhat luxury now though. June, being the month of bonuses and circulars denoting the amount that the hospital staff would be receiving, incites many a thought of exquisite purchases within everyone. aside from constant sexual thoughts running through my synapses, i have been planning to purchase an Xbox360 for quite some times to come. so it was with much initial dismay when the circular denoting the various amounts that we would receive as performance bonuses was making its rounds at the ward level. once again, you know how bad i'm at when it comes to math. the good news is that the amount calculated is waaaaay less than the amount that i've received. with that difference in amount, i made up for that erroneous mistake by purchasing my biggest guilty pleasure since i started work at the hospital: AN XBOX 360! WOOOT! and three new games to boot!

the father, once again, looked at me with that disdainful look he reserved for homosexuals, violence on television and mats hanging around at the void deck, lepak-ing away. i'm all for the above because it's a relatively free country and you're free to do what you want. but the father, armed with a bible and just lacking the adequate pastoral certification, decided straightaway that $699 on an Xbox 360 was a total waste of bonus money. his idea of money well-spent is basically NOT spending it at all. rather, to save for the rainy days and in the emergencies like earthquakes, Armageddons and impending zombie-infestations.

not helping was that the father stumbled upon the new Xbox while i was playing the most violent game in the Xbox series to date: Dead Rising. it's a zombie game that makes Resident Evil pale in comparison when it comes to goriness. the main character was holding a shower head and it plunged the toilet peripheral into the zombie's head, resulting in blood draining out of the zombie literally like a blood bath (hur hur hur!). i could hear the father giving a silent 'tsk' in his mind while emphasizing (once again) the important aspects of having spare savings. all in all, the father is not really pleased with the way i use my money. but what can he say? it's my money after all. he's just the one who manages it and take $300 out of my monthly salary for family expenses.

and i don't even like them.


Wednesday, June 20, 2007

project 355: the perils of the night

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the people in this world can generally be separated into two different types: the ones who thrive on the light & the ones who thrive on darkness. as much as i would like to do a post pertaining to all things occult, this one won't be it. what i'm talking about is with reference to the people who function better depending on the time of the day. some of us are simply more productive during the daylight hours, being coming up with better ideas, thinking out of the box, saying the world's wisest things; all that corporate shit. whereas others, are just born to be night people. maybe it's photosynthesis or solar-powered-skin efficiency, but the body, just like God and the drinks dispenser machine which has a tendency to cheat your money, works in mysterious ways.

i vividly remember my sex with the second ex-boyfriend of a three-year relationship. he was one of those people who simply fared better at night, shedding his mild-mannered nature at the strike of twelve midnight to turn into a ravenous beast of sorts. we had a lot of sex and not that it was bad during the day, but i'm not one to decline even better sex during the night.

all that said, i'm definitely not a night person. well, not at least when it comes to working my ass off in the hospital, serving urinals and bedpans at the most ungodly of hours. to me, the nights should be spent outside of work and home. clubbing, hitting the bars, spa-ing or even just a bit of coffee to help prolong the nights. the only exception i have for being at home is if you are sharing a bed with someone else, be it yours or the other party's. regardless, i've never liked working at night because i simply can't function rationally at night. i have a tendency to be as melancholic and withdrawn as a Wong Kar Wai film during the darkness.

thus it was with great sighs of irritation and even more trepidation that i prepared myself for the next four days of night shifts to come, the first of them which began on Monday. of course, it wouldn't have been a big deal if not for the fact that the next four days would be the first ever night shifts that i've done in my entire Registered Nurse career. you see, i've always had the good fortune of being able to avoid the nights, despite having worked at the organization for nearly seven months coming. this lack of night duties actually works well for me because my body gets tired at night faster than you can even say 'caffeine rush'. falling short of sex, there are prolly two other things that can keep me awake, namely: coffee & cigarettes.

being an amateur at working in the wee hours, i therefore prepared myself by stocking up on both energy sources as much as possible. that and trying to sleep as much as possible for the whole of Monday afternoon. true to the concept of Murphy's Law, my attempt to restore energy backfired on me by making me feel more tired than i was before i slept. as i made my lethargic way to the hospital that evening, i thought back to my one and only experience with the night shift back in the student nursing days. all i had to do back then was present a urinal to a patient now and then. perhaps clear a few diapers and wipe up a few dirty asses. but other than that, it was nothing too drastic. i even had time to 'disappear' like an apparition to the tearoom for a bit of a night time siesta.

fast forward to today, with power comes great responsibility. as a registered nurse, i wish i could just disappear like i did during the student times, and perhaps head to the roof for a long smoke break while staring at the stars. but alas, i have to write reports and administer intravenous medications and entertain all the crazy requests of the patients and their relatives. i've received calls from unknown relatives of patients at 2am, asking for updates about their loved one's conditions. thank goodness for the concept of 'patient-practitioner confidentiality'. it's the perfect way to politely tell someone to sod off without having to worry about complaint letters.

but it's really true what they say, that evil really lurks during the night. the ward where i work at has a history of mysterious ongoings. from spinning heads without the bodies to women in red or white floating around. there's even this famous hospital urban legend about the ward sister who passed away from tongue cancer. she wander around in the wards, prolly looking for painkillers or a scalpel or the chemotherapy department and when she bumps into someone, she'll unfurl her very long tongue and scare the shit out of people. i've watched too much of Supernatural to not take urban legends seriously, so much so that i've taken to go around the hospital at night with my cellphone. there's this scientific theory about mobile networks being a spirit-deterrent. whether the theory is true, it hasn't been put to the test yet. and i'm hoping not.

still, a close encounter sort of put my supernatural instincts into perspective. a female patient with diabetic foot problems spent the entire night moaning and groaning in pain. she was on the lucid side and the only things she could say were 'Aaaah. Aaah. Aaaah.' we loaded her with enough painkillers to whack out Samson without the need for a hair-trim. and she was still going on Aaaah-ing, except that it was more diminished now. it wasn't till much later at 3am that we were alerted by a patient staying opposite her that she had 'fell' out of a bed. 'fell' being a very loosely defined term here. it was actually more like 'slipped' because she was being nursed on a body restraint, and a rather tight one at that. it was practically impossible to move about in bed with that body restraint. my colleagues and i lifted her back in bed and put her on hand restraints this time. now she was as strapped up as a bitch in bondage.

but here's the mysterious Twilight Zone bit. about an hour later, she slipped off again. we found her in the same position, with one of the hand restraints having been seemingly loosened. and believe me, i may not be a boy scout or a sailor in hot white pants, but i can tie knots very well. dead knots to be exact. the only problem of course is undoing them. regardless, she slipped out of bed despite all the restraints that we have initiated on her. as i smothered the goosebumps that had risen on my arms, i really thought that something was amiss here. i've heard stories of bed-ridden cancer patients who do not have the ability to wriggle about in bed. YET, they have managed to slip out of the bed. which is really frustrating, because how do you explain to the relatives when someone incapable of general movement has sustained a fall when all the fall precautions have already been initiated? my colleagues and i all agreed that it must be the work of the spirits because i wasn't the only one who had the goosebumps. she spent the whole night Aaah-ing so much, that she must have really pissed off somebody... or something.

well, that's the first night. today's already the third and frankly speaking, i'm already suffering from insomnia. apologies if i don't reply emails, comments and the general means of communication. regardless, i'm looking forward to the end of the nights because frankly speaking, i can't wait to get some 'Aaaah Aaaah-ing' action of my own.

it's been two weeks.


Monday, June 18, 2007

project 355: why i cover my ass in the hospital

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just as hidden as a set of six-pacs beneath a hunky doctor's scrubs, within the hospital lies an invisible conflict. you could call it a battle of the sexes, or if you would like a Battle Royale of sorts. you might think of it as a struggle for power, or if you're not the literary, metaphoric, 'I-Can-Understand-Shakespeare's-Sonnets' type, i will just simplify it for you and call it a battle. either way, there's is an existence of a pointless struggle between the two most domineering parties in the hospital, namely - the Doctors & the Nurses.

having worked in the hospital for quite a while and seen the clashes on a daily basis, i can't help but relate the whole experience to ninja skirmishes carried out in the dark of the Japanese woods. shurikens are released and poison darts let fly, yet none of the patients or the relatives can comprehend or even see what is really going on beneath their stay in the hospital. it's only those with 'The Eyes' who get the big picture. those who have worked in health-care for an amount of time, those who patronize the hospitals on a regular basis, those from the Allied Health-Care team (eg. radiologists, physiotherapists, medical products sales rep, etc) - they are the ones with 'The Eyes'.

the two teams obviously have their capabilities. team Doctor is filled with people of intellect. people who have studied for so long, immersing themselves in books and one would assume, cadavers. the catch is that the hospital is not filled with cadavers, but rather real, breathing patients who expect a certain amount of bedside manners from them. most of the players in team Doctor are lacking in this aspect. however, this is where the nurses excel. they really do care, they really do give a shit about the patients and their relatives most of the time. but equally so, emotional quotient alone never got anyone anywhere in the first place. truth be told, a majority of the nurses in Singapore lack the intelligence aspect where the doctors are adept at. evidentially, the writer of this post can save a life with great style and etiquette. the catch is that he doesn't know exactly HOW to save a life (insert that song reminiscence of Gray's Anatomy).

this situation would be perfect if the doctors and nurses worked together trying to solve problems and deliver the solutions with great empathy and intellect for the patients. and most of the time they do. however, when it comes to crunch time and the saving of one's own ass, this concept of covering up for each other's incapabilities is practically non-existent.

case in question? about a month ago, a doctor who took morning bloods for two patients with similar names got the names mixed up. patient A's bloods were dispatched with patient's B's blood forms and vice-versa. fortunately, patient A previously had bloods taken before in a group and cross match and her blood was identified to be O+. patient B's bloods that were dispatched under patient A's name were identified to be A+. a huge ruckus was kicked up and an investigation was launched. the official story that came from team doctors was that the nurse didn't assist in the taking of bloods which resulted in the doctor labeling the bloods taken with the wrong patient's identifications. it was a great twist of words and it seems that team Doctors won in the end.

the protocol in the organization would be that the nurses attempt blood-taking on a particular patient twice before requesting the doctor's assistance. also, when the doctors doing their bit of phlebotomy, the nurses (on top of taking care of an average of ten patients and all their shit) are OBLIGED to assist them. but as you know, protocol goes to the dumps when it transits into reality. the routine at the workplace is that none of the nurses are usually free to assist the doctors in blood-taking. in fact, the doctors having understood this concept just help themselves to the equipment they need and take the bloods themselves. all we have to do is dispatch the bloods to the labs for testing.

perhaps in the case mentioned above, the nurses were the ones who did the labeling and they were the ones who got it wrong. from the hospital's well-connected gossip mill however, it seems that the doctor was the one at fault here, having handed the wrong bloods over to the nurses. but it's perhaps a biased point of view given that most of the staff in the hospital's gossip mill interact more with the nurses than the doctors, thus forming a natural kinship with the former.

post-investigation and covering up everyone's asses, a study has been launched to reduce the number of blood-taking errors in the ward setting. for the entirety of this month, the nurses have to chart down the attempts they have taken bloods and inserted intravenous plugs. the also have to chart down the number of times the doctors have done so and the reasons why the doctors were the ones doing it instead of the nurses. not helping is the really bad layout of the charting which is so minuscule that you would need the dispatch the entire survey to the labs and their microscopes just to get the results.

like i said before, when it comes to crunch time everybody uses both hands to cover their asses. unless you've got really big palms or an extra appendage, no sane person who values his career would spare you a hand to cover yours. the only people who would prolly do this would be the gay men. or at least me. i would spare my non-dominant hand to cover a hot ass anytime.

jokes aside, this 'cover your own ass only' mentality is the reason why i'm perhaps so particular about writing every single detail of what i have done for the patients in my reports. it also helps that i'm adept in all things literary. certain words can be used to mean 'A', but for the sake of my own safety, can be turned around to mean 'ABCDE' complete with a very thick smokescreen. the only catch is that it's extremely time-consuming to write elaborate reports. i always end up having to stay back twenty to thirty minutes after shift hours to finish up the bits and pieces that i have not completed. but at least i get my ass-covered and people get to enjoy my excellent penmanship (i have very messily neat hand-writing). so my advice to all the nurses-to-be out there, attempt report-writing as if your life depended on it. but your career and perhaps your life even, really does depend on it.

and my advice to all the doctors-to-be out there?
well, my non-dominant hand is rather free if you need some ass action.


Sunday, June 17, 2007

project 355: calculating the aftermath of bondage

yay! the next Fridae post is out. so here's the shortcut for all the homophobes that dare not enter through the front door:

tie me up, pin me down

well here's a bit of the aftermath with regards to the whole experience of going from massage (of one's nipples) to mastication. there were a few bruised and sore areas, but nothing really permanent. my ass has been tormented one time too many to actually sustain permanent damage. in fact, i daresay that it's rather regenerative in a Claire Bennet kinda way. i'm proud to say that it's still full of shit. the nipples are also rather resilient to most kinds of damage too, having been through elements of varying temperatures and having sharp objects going through them. so no harm done there.

alas i can't say the same for my right hand. apparently, the ropes were a tad too tight or perhaps i was just squirming as much as a worm being pan-fried in olive oil and trying its best to enjoy its last moments by indulging in a bit of break dancing. the first two fingers of the right hand seem to be devoid of sensation at times. you know that kind of feeling when you sit on your ass for too long a time without getting up. and when suddenly all the blood rushes back to your head and en route, through your ass, you suddenly develop this numbness. yeap, it's like that. except that now you apply it to my right hand.

which is all cool because i am left-handed, so it doesn't affect my writing. at the same time, it's not that cool also because it's my dominant wanking hand. which actually come to think of it, is still rather cool too. because it's devoid of sensation, it makes wanking feel like it's somebody else that's doing the job for me. in frat boy terms, it's 'totally awesome, dude'.

as for the masseur, we haven't kept in touch since that day. he did suggest keeping in touch via MSN. but i can't say that i have exactly enjoyed my massage-turned-bondage session. don't get me wrong because it was very good, a bit like a roller-coaster ride with all the ups and down and quite literally, upside-downs. but still, not my cup of tea. and the chihuahuas are not my kinda dog as well. but still if anyone's interested in having the masseur's number, you can e-mail me. spankthemalenurse@hotmail.com.

oh well, all that said, it's still a matter of (insert Final Fantasy leveling-up theme). now i can spend my experience points upgrading my already-resilient ass.


Friday, June 15, 2007

project 355: rubber and misguided shapes

i have to say that i'm naturally perverse, being able to see the sex in almost anything. i could take something as innocent as a bonsai plant and turn it into something as carnal as a bonsai plant with a (insert random private part). which is why working in the ward, i tend to blurt out randomly crude jokes when i'm stressed. thank goodness the colleagues are mainly young people and even the eldest (a mother of two) can be quite the cheeky little thing herself. add in Pang Keng, the other colleague who reigns supreme as the King of Perversion, the workplace is somewhat oozing with hormones.

unfortunately, nobody is having sex yet. or at least i'm not getting any and i haven't had any knowledge of anybody who has.

work aside, Sunanthar and i were in the supermarket at Paragon today when we came across these suspiciously-shaped balloons in the partywares section.
i would like to see the kids' reactions. and perhaps the adult's erections... ehrm... i mean, reactions as well.


Thursday, June 14, 2007

project 355: snatching the golf club from tigerwoods

mad people are not generally what you see in the horror flicks: wearing an apron with CSI-styled blood splatters, waving sharp-edged weapons about and applying them to the bodies of the general public. in fact, the mad people that i've known so far through my nursing career are generally nice people. just that they have a few harmless and sometimes charming idiosyncrasies. i remember one eccentric forty year old man during my Mental Health posting of the nursing school days. we reminisced about the days of yore in Hokkien and we actually got to know each other better for about twenty minutes or so. it wasn't until he started offering me the private number of the Prime Minister that i realized something was amiss. he wrote this down on a piece of paper:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

'Make sure you don't give it away or i'll die!' he warned me. And then with an ominous look on his face, he gave the last words he ever said to me, 'Le Mai Shiong Kong Zeng Hu Mm Zai, Zeng Hu kua eh tio eh hor!' very wise ones indeed. i went home that day pondering about what the mad man said (albeit translated) 'Don't think the government doesn't know, they can see hor!!' i never saw him again as that was the last day of my posting. but i will always remember the look on his face. it was pure George Orwell and 1984.

but really, how many times have you seen the insane or the eccentric in the public with all their weird little habits? i've seen the streakers. i've seen the paranoid. i've seen the depressed. i've seen the ones with the tics. i've seen the truly mad. most of the time, their actions are interpreted as a bloody katana slicing through the peace of the public. they ruffles a few feathers and perhaps piss off a few of the sane people in this world. but to tell the truth, it's very seldom that they actually mean anyone harm or have ill-intentions at all. in fact, i can think of more sane people who are really fucked up compared to the insane. i guess that if we treat the mad with respect or at least leave them alone, they will generally leave us alone too.

unfortunately, not everyone sees it from that viewpoint. well at least not the psychiatric doctors which came a-visiting today. they were called in for a referral for one of my patients who has a history of mental problems. he was forty-two but looked about thirty. he spoke decent English and was actually quite a gregariously charming chap. i've actually taken quite a liking to him, not in a gay way, but in a chummy patient-practitioner way. he asks for the minor irritating things that my nursing diploma and job scope doesn't cover (eg. making tea with sugar and no milk and charitable donations of 10 cents to make phone calls), but once i settle all his wants, he leaves me alone and stays a good boy. of course, the rosy picture i painted above would fade to gray when i mention that he goes around the hospital in pyjamas, wearing a red scarf around his neck that's tied like a boy scout and uses a golf club as a walking stick.

traditionally, when someone who doesn't blend in with the crowd, they are generally treated different. you could be holding a harmless object like a teddy bear, but if the public thinks that you're crazy, everyone steers clear of you and maintains a 4 meter radius around you. after all, don't all mad people go around carrying Desert Eagles in teddy bears? naturally, all the patients staying beside Tiger Woods are freaked out by him. they are thinking that he will creep up one night and bash their heads in with his 3-iron.

even the Psychiatric doctors wrote in their reports that Tiger Woods had a previous incident of having 'brandished' (written in capital letters and double underlined; they were pissed at me, but i'll elaborate later) the golf club at passer-bys in the street. i could be wrong of course, but how 'brandished' is 'brandished' really? i might be holding my cock and using it as a weapon of sorts, is that equated to 'brandishing' too? it seems that all the actions of the mentally-unstable are defined as dangerous.

the psychiatric doctors wrote down orders to remove the golf club from Tiger Woods so that he would be less dangerous to the staff and the patients and perhaps the doctors themselves. to which i was pretty unhappy about. how do you remove an object of certain importance from a mad man? because it's not exactly like taking candy away from a six-year old boy. for all you know, Tiger Woods might be a stable tea-drinking person when everything is at peace. but when threatened, he might just turn the golf club into a weapon which would then evolve the whole situation into a self-fulfilling prophecy full of 'I-told-you-so' looks from the psychiatric team.

the psychiatric team (made up of a woman with a permanently scandalized look on her face and a really nice gentleman) confronted me, 'Why is it that nobody has removed the golf club from him yet?'

'He's just using the golf club as a walking stick,' i explained, 'and furthermore he shows no signs or intent on causing harm to anyone'

'You need to remove the golf club from him before he does any harm to anyone' scandalized face said.

'Okay, how would you like to try and remove a potential weapon from a mad man? Would you like to try that yourself?' i retorted. to which at that point of time, scandalized evolved to the next available level of even more scandalized looks. they were consultants and seldom did people of a lower level speak back to them. of course, i didn't know that they were consultants at the point of time. so i just gave them my five cents worth when they were expecting more like a thousand-dollar note because of their elevated statuses.

it's one thing to sit one's ass down and get paid more than $5k a month (they were consultants - high-ranking doctors) to write down rational orders for the nurses to carry out. it's another however, to write down orders that will potentially put the nurses and patients in danger. so there came a compromise. the nurses would administer a sleeping pill to him. and when he is in a deep sleep, we remove the golf club from him. crossing our fingers that he won't start harassing the other patients and the staff for his golf club.

crazy is apparently only as crazy as one sees it. i mean, they used to think that the homosexuals were crazy as well. which is why craziness is all about context. for all you know, tea-drinking, golf clubs and boy scout scarves will be all the sartorial rage next year.

and perhaps then, Tiger Woods would not be so crazy after all.


Wednesday, June 13, 2007

project 355: variety, sex and cigarettes

i take my cigarettes the same way i take my sex during singlehood - with plenty of promiscuity and blowing involved.

perhaps it's a problem of commitment, but i simply can't bring myself to stick to one brand of even one particular variety of cigarettes. on the really humid days which make the perfect excuse for the gay men to remove their tops, nothing makes my day (other than the topless men) like a kopi peng and a stick of Viceroy Menthol Light. the menthol freshness combined with the chilly taste of iced coffee in one's mouth is simply heavenly. in fact, the feeling is almost like giving a blowjob to an Eskimo who has for some reason, dipped his dick into a freezing cold coffee machine. which is all excellent until you realize that the temperamental weather of tropical Singapore has suddenly switched from 'topless men' sunny to 'let's put on more clothes and wear a fashionable overcoat' rainy.

of course, rainy days also have their cigarette equivalents. there's nothing that defines the rainy day like snuggling up under bedsheets with another person on one side and a cigarette on the other. for the smoker, life is strangely fulfilling when the two best things in life are combined together in one single moment - the after-sex cigarette. it's even better when the other party smokes which makes the single moment a shared moment.

i used to know this chap whom i considered as one of my regulars. a cute dance instructor with a fine ass and an impressive appendage. what's even better is the fact that he smokes. it was because of this that i agreed to meet up occasionally with him at the budget hotel for our two hour sessions of sex and smokes. i'll spare you the details about the sex because it's rather mediocre. but the small talk and the cosiness and the smoky atmosphere with CNN blaring in the background just gives me that melancholic indie film mood that i've always liked. alas, i cut contact with him after going steady with the ex-air crew, assuming that relationship bliss would be in place for quite a while.

true to the indie film spirit, the break-up happened and now i'm left with no sex buddy who smokes. he's still a very nice guy though (the ex-sex buddy) because he always says hi to me over MSN. and i mean ALWAYS. whenever i log in, he'll be there. aiyah, but there's just too much pride in my way to reply his messages. so i guess the search for the ultimate sex buddy who smokes is still on.

falling short, the next best thing would be a cigarette in one hand and one's own appendage in the other. and you don't even need to factor in the weather.


Tuesday, June 12, 2007

project 355: lumps

call me an ignorant frat boy, but i have a bad habit of making bad jokes about breasts when the topic is brought up. somehow or other, i can picture an image of breasts in my mind and shred its dignity to pieces before any straight man can unhook another woman's bra. yeah, yeah. i know it's awfully disrespectful of me to make fun of a woman's sacred globes and all the feminists are unhooking their bras for burning faster than the straight men can help them unhook theirs. but believe me, it's all in the name of fun. i love breasts and i mean them no harm. in fact, i think they look awfully awesome after a reader of this blog, Jonrenz introduced me to the world of the stylish Victoria's Secret fashion shows. my favorite one by far being this one with a Scottish theme (insert visuals of kilts without undergarments).



the breast jokes were thus once again unleashed two days ago when all the guys from the morning shift were passing over to all the guys in the afternoon. it seldom happens, a team of guys passing over to another. so there was obviously this fraternity bonding thing going on between us with perhaps an overdose of vulgarities. the only things lacking were the free flow of beer and perhaps strippers. all was going breast-free until we arrived at the second last patient of the room. this particular patient had the ironic diagnosis of 'Right Breast Lump'.

at which i couldn't help but protest, 'Isn't the breast already a lump? It's like a lump on top of another lump which would technically make it a nipple, that is if you consider a nipple as a lump. otherwise it would just be like a snowman, lumps balanced on each other!'

Pang Keng (who was with the morning shift) was already suppressing his laughter in a 'hur hur hur' kind of tone. he had nothing intellectual to chip in, thus he just gave a random 'You make me feel like squeezing (insert random colleague)'s lumps'. he looked a bit like an ogre in a nursing uniform when he said it. i could picture him in my mind squeezing random colleague's breasts with his over-sensitive hands. it's quite a bloody mess actually.

we continued to pass the report only to discover that he was going to be sent for a colonoscopy. a colonoscopy is a bit like a kinky doctor-patient session take to a new level of extreme. pre-operatively, your bowels get cleaned out with laxatives or an enema. and during the procedure, your ass get numbed enough so that they can stick a dildo equipped with a camera up yours. this is all in the name of finding out what's wrong with your ass. but for all you know, the doctors are perhaps like frat boys as well. so they just send you for a colonoscopy in the name of fun and making a random diagnosis.

of course, all four of the male nurses were confused as to why the patient would need a picture of his bowels when he was admitted for a breast lump. we searched through the patient's past history in the case notes and nothing of relevance to anything anal. 'It's prolly a traveling lump or something lah, move all the way from breast to ass' i chimed in, equally puzzled.

to which Pang Keng his most redundant answer to date, 'Sigh... If only the correct lumps can travel. I will fucking bring them along with me wherever i go seah!'

to which all four of us male nurses gave a unified 'hur hur hur'.


Sunday, June 10, 2007

project 355: 80% gay, 20% straight, 100% me

i know, i know. given my atrocious love-hate relationship with mathematics, i'm in no position to expound on the percentages of sexuality in me. in fact, the concept of numbers have always had a profound effect of scaring the shit out of me, no thanks to algebra and tuition teachers who killed whatever joy that was left in math during the 'O' level days of yore. but it's really as simple as it reads (and i shall avoid using the numbers here) - a hundred percent of me is made up of eighty percent pink genes and another twenty of the (insert random boring straight color like gray, navy blue or black) ones.

i don't know about you, but sometimes i get the thought that at the snap of a finger, i could drop all my designer emotional LV baggage and change from sexually-active gay dude to sexually-active straight dude. of course that would mean denying my true nature and having to condition myself to look for the hidden joys of watching straight porn. but really, nothing that a few transition sessions of sex with masculine-looking women can't change.

i mean, i don't have broken wrists flying about like planes at the departure halls of Changi. i don't walk with a funny gay waddle. i don't dress like i'm asking to be raped. i don't enunciate my 'S's in everyday speech. hell, i don't even like being a bottom. well, there's nothing drastically permanent in me that requires a lobotomy or plastic surgery to reconstruct the sagging straight person that's left in me. which is all fine and dandy when i actually do WANT or even NEED to head back to the path of heterosexuality. then again, 'Why would i think about turning straight when i'm already happy with being gay?'

the above train of straight thoughts coursed through my mind on a commute to work last week. the ipod was playing some random Indie band and i was immersed in my copy of Merde Actually. it wasn't until i looked up to adjust my glasses that i saw The One. well, not exactly The One. but more like The One... Except That It Comes With A Vagina (insert random horror theme). there she was, standing in the crowded train, a seemingly exuberant glow emanating from her tan. perhaps it was her adventurous fashion sense of boots and stripes. or maybe it was the perky breasts that looked like it could bring world peace with just the mere sight of it. or maybe her flawless face that exuded such icy-coolness that she could consider a career in Cold Storage. or even better, the elite girls' school accent she had which i'm rather fond of, having been straight during the lower secondary school days.

whatever the pulling factor was, she caught my eye as someone that i would consider as 'my type'. and believe me, i'm already Mr. Picky when it comes to my guys, what more the girls then? so it was while staring at her assets and the little trinket of a necklace that peeked down into her never-ending love for world peace that i had to smack myself back into reality.

what was i doing, staring at breasts when i'm gay?

quickly, i averted my eyes back to Merde Actually and pretended to read. however, the more i pondered upon The One With The Vagina's breasts, the more i came to realize that i have a bad habit. countless are the times when i see cleavage and can't help but do a look-see again even though i'm far from being aroused by the sight of titties. it get even worse when i accidentally catch visuals of mine-skirts and whatever that's beneath it. ugh... the horrors.

i know i'm very much gay and there's nothing much that can change that. but i'm thinking that perhaps these are the 20% of straight genes in me, clawing their way back up to where they used to be back then. it's true that i can appreciate breasts and their existence, their practicality, their symbolic meanings in the history of mankind (20% straight genes: 'though mostly it just means sex... hur hur'), etc. a bit in the same direction as one would go about enjoying fine wine and art. but no.... i'm still pretty much far from the point of enjoying them in a sexual way. same goes for the vage apparently, except that that would require a bit more than just a change of mindset. but as with everything else in life, given a little time, some practice and the right type of porn, i believe that i might just get the hang of it.

this is why if there ever comes a day when the gah-men somehow or other, decides to impose the 'Straight Conversion Course' upon the homosexual population in Singapore, i think i would be the first one to ace the whole thing with flying non-rainbow colors. but hopefully, that day where Asian society takes one great step back will never come. because for now, the 80% of gay genes can still derive peace (and perhaps world peace?) with just a mere look at bulging men's pectorals.

and for that, i'm glad.


Wednesday, June 06, 2007

project 355: grandpa wants to see my wife

once again, this is photographic evidence that i have absolutely not mastered the art of smiling pleasantly. blame it on the bizarre cheekbones i have because they have a tendency to scrounge themselves up in places that turn a smile into a sex deterrent. this theory has been proven and tested when i cruise for sex at the spas. strange hunky men think that i'm a bottom when i give the pleasant look of happiness. smiling in the spa seems to say 'fuck me' with an exclamation mark, no less. thus to avoid having to launch into the tiresome 'my-ass-is-mainly-one-way' explanations, i go about exuding the cynical scowl permanently.

but enough about my drastic need for facial reconstruction in the near future because that's not what this post will be about. rather, i'm going to be talking about the paternal grandfather and his wish to see me married off before he passes. this simple request i would be very happy to do, because who doesn't want marital bliss to one person for the rest of his/her life? however, in my case there's just one very small delicate detail - a preference for another groom to get married to, rather than a bride. the paternal family do not know that i am gay and 'tis not wise to give them prior knowledge of it too, since all of them are pretty hardcore Christians as well. it is with this sentiment, that i am foreseeing a future as perhaps a bachelor, fake girlfriends and the publishing of a book titled '101 excuses to not get married for the gay man'.

the topic of my 'impending' marriage was thus thrown into view once again when i went over to the relatives' for dinner one evening. this was done per request of the mother via autoroaming from Malaysia. i felt bad to reject her because she had been the one stocking up on the groceries to cover us during the entirety of this trip. plus she had thrown in some spare cash for us to use during this time as well (possibly to cover my admission into the spas). and if you want to go further, i technically borrowed her womb as a rent-free sorta accommodation during the fetal days. so a small request like this wouldn't kill me lah.

i wasn't that keen on going because making a solo trip there would be hazardous. i expected the relatives to start peppering me with questions about my future and girlfriends. to which i would have to lie. now, i have no qualms about lying because deceit is very much the way of the world these days. but if given a choice, i would rather not. because lies are like little bunny rabbits, the just keep reproducing themselves. one lie begets another lie and before you know it, you are immersed into a family of deceitful bunny rabbits that keep growing by the minute.

all that said, i might my way over to the relatives, thinking of the possibilities of '101 excuses to not get married for the gay man' en route. suffice to say, the evening was full of pleasantries. i made small talk with my god-mother (the father's sister) over chrysanthemum tea and a very horrid Taiwanese drama with actors who spoke their local version of Hokkien. we talked about cousins and their work and whether they could get hitched or not.

all was going well until the grandfather who had just finished with the cooking, plonked his big ass down on the sofa and broached the imminent question of whether i had a girlfriend or not. i was cornered like a sorority girl in a dark alley with no way of escape except by letting the assailant get his way with me. thank goodness though, before i had a chance to answer, the grandfather launched into a tutorial of the step-by-step process to getting a girlfriend.

it was rather funny actually. the grandfather being the old school guy that he is, actually suggested writing letters to the girl. i wanted to explain to him to wonders of modern technology and the fact that there's such a thing called SMS existent in the backdated telecommunications system of Singapore. but i refrained just in case he turned the question around and asked me why i didn't put this good technology to good use and get a wife with it.

after listening to the grandfather go on for nearly a minute or so, i could summarize his speech into several points:
- get a girlfriend via the postal service
- see if she's responds
- if she doesn't, get another girlfriend via the postal service
- go for the type that likes to save money
- save money yourself to pay for the wedding
- get kids earlier because 'i want to see some very soon'

oooh. the onus is indeed on me, being the eldest grandson of the paternal side. but alas, nature intended this grandson to save his semen for the pure sake of lubrication rather than pro-creation. which come to think of it, actually makes a good excuse for '101 excuses to not get married for the gay man'.

(blogger's note: the picture may seem irreverent, but that's a picture of the cousin and me at one of the family dinners. okay, it is irreverent, but we make a very good picturesque couple, don't we?)


Tuesday, June 05, 2007

project 355: dhobi, dhobi!


they say that one should never air their dirty linen in public. but for today, i'm going to go against this age old adage and reveal to you a family secret. a secret so deep and dark and stained that no Indonesian maid would ever want to be employed under the Zhang family to do their dirty deeds (and linen). the revelation in question?

The Teo Children have never completely done their own laundry at home before.
(insert dramatic horror theme)

i know i know. at this point you're thinking like 'Chay..... and i thought there was going to be incest in this post. I'm not reading anymore'. let me just try to appeal to you to stay a while my dear reader. come, take off your clothes (including your knickers). they need a good washing. after all, i have just accomplished what i thought was the impossible - doing the laundry from the separation of lights and darks all the way to the folding and keeping them in their respective drawers. so grab a chair, take a seat and let me start up the washing machine.

to begin with, the Teo children have always been part of the laundry process. though it's mainly towards the end where we have no choice but to keep the folded clothes in the respective cabinets. but it's still being part of the process that counts, isn't it? frankly speaking though, if given the choice i would leave the whole thing to a domestic help. yes, i'm that lazy when it comes to housekeeping. regardless, sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do when there's no one else around to do it.

with the parents gone for their little Zen time with Jesus, most of the housework seems to fall on my shoulders. the brother, being the heterosexual person that he is, doesn't even lift a finger to even touch the vacuum cleaner or do the dishes. it's times like these that i'm thankful for having the gay genes, because it would seem that the pinker sex comes fully equipped with a set of skills that would make Martha and her apprentices proud.

come to think of it though, the only experience i've had with washing machines and laundry would be back in the days of Brunei. we had communal toilets that came attached with two washing machines and two dryers. nothing fanciful, just simple washing machines and dryers that were constantly overworked to the point that they threatened to break down every few months by being extra noisy with their work. doing the laundry in Brunei however, was very easy. since every single garment smelt like crap and was generally black, brown, green or gray, everyone would just dump lights and darks into the communal washing machine, pour a great dollop of detergent and put it to spin for forty minutes.

the communal dryer was the tricky bit. a typical spin in the dryer would take ninety minutes. and since everyone was just too lazy to sun their clothes, the dryer was always in use. there would always be some asshole who would remove everyone's clothes at the seventh minute and replace it with his own. this basically resulted in a constant battle for the use of the dryer. it got so bad that someone actually removed the knob which started the dryer and kept it for himself. thank goodness the guy who removed it was from my department.

anyways, back to the present. with the laundry basket filled to the brim with armpit stains, skidmarks and cumstains awaiting eradication, it was thus that i decided to attempt the laundry process with that Bruneian anticipation. the mother being the domestic goddess that she is, wrote down detailed instructions on how to use the washing machine. that helped with about 40% of the job. it was the separation of the lights and the darks that really killed it though. what do those people mean when they say 'light'? is hot pink considered a dark color? what about clothes with more than one color on it like stripes? the gay mind was working overtime to process the entire spectrum of colors.

this was something that required the wisdom of a cigarette. so i lit up, and sat down on the kitchen stool to think. true enough, like a mentos mint, i managed to come up with a relatively fool-proof law that my gay mentality could comprehend. any color that was considered boring to me went to the darks. while all the colors that represent gaiety was welcome into the open arms of the lights. i felt an immense sense of accomplishment as i dumped all the dark into the washing machine for the ninety minute wash.

nobody warned me about the perils of hanging clothes on the indoor wooden poles though. the normal regime would be to hang the clothes on wooden poles which were balanced by hooks drilled into the ceiling. the only way to get these poles down would be the use of another wooden pole with a hook. it's difficult to explain actually. what i can explain though is that i've suffered a lot of hits from falling poles that slipped out of the hooks. one of them even hit my eye. all i can say is that i'm insured and in the event of death of disability, there's money to be gained.

so i'm done with the darks. but what about the whites? after all the poles dropping from the ceiling, i was a bit fazed from hanging up them wet clothes. so i did it the lazyman's way - the dryer. little did i know that dumping super wet clothes in the dryer is the olfactory equivalent of the aging of bleu cheese. ninety minutes of hot dryer action only did preserve that musky smell of dirty laundry water and used detergent. believe me, it was gross.

left with no choice, i still had to hang the whites in the end. so there i was, trying to pick out the clothes that were entirely dry so that i didn't have to hang everything up. i did this process of elimination by smelling the entire batch of whites, judging based on funky smells and general dampness. well here's the catch, the mother has a lot of white undergarments. so whoever was watching from their kitchen window at the opposite block must have got quite a sight. a boxer-brief-clad young man inhaling the scent of his mother's brassier and panties.

and the biggest challenge of all - how in the world do you fold a brassier neatly so that it will fit into the drawers? i was afraid of damaging the padded bras because i have seen the price tag attached to bras and believe me once again, i could smoke five packs of cigarettes with each breast support garment that a woman wears. so i tucked the cups and straps neatly beneath each other and placed everything nicely on the parent's bed.

thus it is with a boastful voice that i declare myself to be a relative novice at the processing of laundry. it is the first time. but i'm quite sure it won't be the last. because your clothes are now done with washing. but i'm too lazy to hang it up to dry. so why don't we dump them clothes in the dryer and get down to the more important things.

like the washing of your underparts.


Monday, June 04, 2007

project 355: little kids irritate the park downtown

DSC00180

i was rummaging through the old photos in my laptop today when i stumbled upon this old .jpg of John Chua and his sister, Grace Chua. this picture was taken during a two week Singapore holiday during the working stint in Brunei. i had the great fortune to be able to commemorate the paternal great-grandmother's second death anniversary while back here. do note that it wasn't a solemn event or anything like that because everybody seemed to have gotten over the great-grandmother's death. there was laughter and incessant chatting about the post-commemoration dinner to be heard in the air. i guess this was also why it wasn't that surprising to see that the young ones amongst the paternal family were all running about like hyperactive gremlins tripping on Ritalin.

i was lucky to be able to snap this picture. mainly because John Chua is a camera-shy person, able to evade the camera lens faster than one can even say 'cheese'. i think somehow or other, the spirit of the great-grandmother did some good by calming him and down and getting him to strike a pose (albeit a gay one) behind her tomb. for some reason, Grace Chua (the little sullen-looking wench in the corner) is not looking too happy. prolly something to do with not being the main focus of this picture. what a camera whore.

alas, as sudden as this moment of calm materialized, it disappeared once again with both John and Grace making every effort to resume their irritating game of chasing each other around the cemetery. they jumped over graves. they whined about being hungry. they complained about the mosquitoes. they trod on the flowers on the graves of others. one could dismiss this sort of behavior as the stuff that kids are prone to doing. but i'm much more in the belief that the parents play a very big part in controlling their kids.

the question that begets asking here is this: despite all the death metal-comparative noise that John & Grace were making, why didn't Father & Mother Chua do anything to tone it down by at least a notch to say, a blue-grass standard? the evening ended with the group of us going to a nearby food outlet for some excellent zi char and the kids crying over mosquito repellent that they had stupidly rubbed into their eyes (insert death metal anthem).

admittedly, i hate kids. all kids in general, regardless of how they look. they may be born with the genes of People Magazine's Most Beautiful People on Earth, but kids never fail to have the same issues on hand - tantrums, misbehavior, insensitivity and a general sense of stupidity. of course, it's simply an issue of the times that won't resolve itself. these days, nobody disciplines their kids anymore. what with the 'spare the rod' philosophy being as happening as a pair of bell-bottoms from the 80s.

it's actually quite a vicious cycle when you come to think of it. child abuse rules are set in place to protect the kids. the parents can't discipline the kids without the use of physical deterrents. the kids end up being spawns of Satan without the rod. and they get so bad that the parents end up giving the children a good whacking anyways. which results in Child Services having to enforce more rules on parental guidance. and then it begins all over again. spawn of Satan might perhaps be an exaggeration, but i have everyday evidence of how misguided the kids can get.

take the hospital for example, i have always felt that parents should never bring their kids along. the hospital corridors are normally rather packed with medical equipment and trolleys of case notes. not easy to navigate. fill it with people and relatives and staff, it's almost like a Beijing railway station during the pre-Chinese New Year holidays. now add in kids that are running around like they were possessed by Satan in swine... one is very much tempted to attempt whatever it is the hawt brothers do on Supernatural.

come to think of it, it's not that different on the public trains in Singapore too - what with children swinging around the grab poles and hand rails like very cringe-worthy versions of 'Kids Gone Wild'. it's times like these that one can't help but wonder: what in the world are the parents for then? a nine-month creation and catalyst for the world's worst infection?

which is why i always make it a point to bring out the Supernanny in me while in the hospital. not with naughty stools and neither with 'naughty stools' though believe me, some of these young punks really need some shit thrown at them. when i see kids running up and down the corridor, i cannot resist the urge to give them a good scolding. i will muster up the scoungiest look i can contort my face into, stare at the offensive offspring and shout something like:

'Hoi! You run some more? You run some more? You fall down and die then you know!'

the effect is much more dramatic if i say this with a syringe and needle in hand. all that said, i believe that by chiding each child for their naughty behavior, i am making the world a much better place. call me an anal-retentive or conservative old-timer, but kids are really a bane to this world. thank goodness i grew out of being one.

(editor's note that means nothing to the rest of you: shoutouts to skye)


Sunday, June 03, 2007

project 355: goodbye parents, hello walking around the house naked

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for the first time in the parent's dowdy little conservative lives, they have decided to go on a holiday trip by themselves. and they are doing it with God, no less! everybody, meet THE ANNUAL BIBLE-PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH CAMP (*insert random fanfare and sparkles*) to be held this year in Seremban, Malaysia!

the annual church camp is an event that fills me with dread. i used to attend it with the parents and the brother back in the younger days because i didn't have much of a choice. the parents couldn't leave the brother and me alone at home. neither could they deposit us at some random relatives' place. so we tagged along despite all our consistent protests.

church camp never fails to bring back bad memories though. boring sermons and A LOT of it, bad food in the various four-star Malaysian hotels and even worse company with fellow campers who use words like 'The Lord Be Praised' on a regular basis. can you imagine greeting your fellow church camp mates every morning with a routine comment and getting a nonsensical yet zesty 'The Lord Be Praised' in return? can you imagine having to listen to sermons at least six times a day for five days in a row? can you imagine having to eat Chinese food interpreted in a local Malaysian sense? cannot right? then you haven't attended the Bible-Presbyterian church camp.

and oh oh! the youth in the church camp. i was part of the rejects in church back then because i was neither from an elite school nor socially-inclined nor 'cool'. but i've always thought that them church kids were a silly bunch of crappers; hanging out at the hotel lounge with S$9 cokes (no offence there, Norman) till the wee hours, trying to reason amongst themselves why hotel lounge cokes cost more than the average sweetened carbonated drink. and youth fellowship sessions in someone's hotel room, singing songs with guitar accompaniment and playing lame group games followed by a short sermon (as if six in the morning wasn't enough?) and refreshments. do note the refreshments normally did no better than the breakfast buffet. call me a scorned creep. but church kids are just not my cup of tea.

all that said, the parents have been planning this day for a bloody long time. and trust me when i say that they have been planning for a LOOOONG time. they have bought enough rations to feed Somalia for a month. they have left us with enough money to open a mini fish farm at home. and extremely detailed sets of instructions on how to run the washing machine and the maintenance of the home.

of course, the pink little wheels in my fluffy little mind are already turning and well-lubed up for some action. the brother will prolly be out during the next few days and so will i. in fact, i have already decided to visit the spas and fuck my brains out the next few days. not forgetting clubbing if i can find someone to go with. and at the back of my mind is to bring the brother out for our very first outing together.

plans plans plans. you know what they say, Man Proposes while God Disposes.

i can't help thinking though, what if one of us in the Teo family die in the next week? the more likelihood would perhaps be the parents while traveling up the North-South highway through Malaysia. i know that they are insured, so there money to be gained. but the brother is not insured. so perhaps it's true what the parents have been repeating to me for the past weeks - that the brother will officially be under my charge. from the way i see it, the brother and me can save each other if anything happens at home. i'm a nurse. the brother's a student nurse. what could possibly go wrong?

perhaps for once, i can agree that 'The Lord Be Praised!'


Friday, June 01, 2007

project 355: dinner with the Bible-Presbyterians and other short notes

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it's not everyday that one gets to dine with the family and thank god for that, i say! not especially when you have Bible-Presbyterian parents who play the part by the constant dispensing of heavenly advice to every single question to life. though i have to give it to the parents for not being God's Divine Advisers for today.

yes, today being the day after the public holiday when the parents decide to take an off day to prepare for their annual Church Camp holiday in Malaysia. a lot of time was spent not packing their luggages but rather, stocking up on groceries for the children and tying up the loose ends of errands for the in-laws. but more on that in another upcoming post. so the parents, armed with a $20 Pizza Hut voucher and an empty stomach decided to bring us out for pizza and pasta. as usual, both the Teo family sons played their part by exhibiting looks of nonchalance and boredom. but secretly deep down inside, the eldest of the Teo sons was pretty excited because he hasn't had pizza for nearly a month coming (which is quite a long time for him). well, i dunno about the brother because he was really pulling a new record for boredom by not talking AT ALL during the entire dinner conversation.

since the brother was already not contributing to the general flow of conversation, i had to do something to show that i was deserving of my part of the family inheritance. so i brought up the first topic that i found in the filing cabinet of my brain: job prospects. while carb-loading on a slice of Hawaiian pizza, i told the mother about my interest in pursuing a career in writing feature articles. to which she was surprisingly very supportive about. she even agreed with me that the general income for a Registered Nurse is not deserving of the amount of work we put in. mentally, i could envision my relationship points with the mother increasing with each social interaction i have with her ALA The Sims.

the father however, was about as fun as a comforter drenched in saliva and a bit of snot in it. he never outrightly said that he was un-supportive of my pursuit in a literary career, but one could see the look on his face. it spoke of practicality and the fact that i would have to start from the bottom of the career ladder all over again. which is true, but i'm young without any prior commitments like family and a boyfriend or even a bed-ridden relative. on the contrary, he suggested that i follow his footsteps of teaching people how to play the piano. to which at that point of time, i decided to follow in the brother's footsteps instead, shutting off the option of conversation with the parents and not saying anything AT ALL.

the mother then decided to bring up the topic of nursing work. the mother started sharing about her work experiences and how tough and difficult it is. and when it comes to sharing about nursing, i just can't stop myself. it's a bad habit. i love my job too much, i guess. too much that i accidentally revealed that i have been suffering constant headaches for the past few weeks. not really crippling headaches that requires a bored hole into the skull to release one's inner demons, but more of irritating ones that make your head feel like it has been trod on by an inexperienced American elephant tourist attempting to dance the Polka.

of course, the father had his immediate answer to every single health problem i have and am prolly having in the future - Smoking. to which i would have said 'codswallop and bollocks to you, papa!' but i decided against it as it was most prolly an uphill battle trying to defend the honor of the cigarette. i thought that it was very narrow-minded though, to pin-point every single health issue i'm having to smoking. i'll be sure to remind the father to point the finger at smoking the next time i get someone pregnant. correction: IF i ever get someone pregnant.

post-dinner, the family usually has the habit of walking round the shopping mall, idly looking at things yet refraining from making a purchase out of them. the general belief is that it aids in peristalsis, which eventually leads to the post-shopping activity of taking a crap at home. which is all good if you're not a smoker unlike me. all i prefer to do after a meal is just have one stick. which is why i decided to make my planned exit after the parents finished ambling about Watson's, a personal store that attends to your 'personal' (or should i say 'perineal') and daily needs. they generally sell medications, hair dyes, facial products and a whole lot of medications (eg. Lactacyd, hur hur). a bit like your local pharmacy.

just when i was about to sneak out my overused excuse of going to the library to borrow a book, the brother asked me a question. i'm not lying when i say this but this happens to be the first question asked in nearly two months. like i've always said, the brother and i never talk. we interact with a telepathic sense, knowing what to expect from each other when we're alone at home. if somebody's legs are blocking the way, we'll know to lift it up without even look each other in the eye. he will scoop food onto my plate at the dinner table, and i will do the same too. all this, done without any conversation involved. call it brotherhood, but i prefer to say it's more of an automated response after having lived with each other for nearly 20 over years.

regardless, the brother has broken yet another record for today. and for that, i decided to entertain his question of buying some random shower foam that caught his stylish eye. i have to admit that the bottles caught my attention too, but upon closer inspection, they were nothing more than plastic bottles filled with soapy solution that's assembled in China. still, it was very reminiscent of the potion bottles that an apothecary would own. so we started discussing (without any words, no less) whether 'Mango & Passionfruit' or 'Sweet Melon & Ginger' was a better buy. like the homosexual and metrosexual siblings that we are, i picked 'Sweet Melon & Ginger' while the brother made do with 'Heavenly Marshmallow'. the both of us went home with a sense of accomplishment at having made a stylish decision together.

all-in-all this is one of the better family outings. makes me wish i had a proper family. of course, i'm going to regret saying this later. sigh... the things i do for the family inheritance.



About Me


Name: the nurse
Home: Singapore
About Me: i'm a nurse, i'm gay, i smoke, i play the piano, i patronize the theatre, i flip through glossy magazines for no apparent reason, i love sex, i am a left-handed libran, i watch art-house films mostly, i love house music, and did i say i love sex?
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