This useless thing.

I’m done for this time. For reals. All that effort put in to psyche myself that X is a baddie (well not really but “hatred” has to be nurtured) has gone up in a poof. You know that saying “a minute on stage equals to 10 years behind the stage” or some Chinese idiom along those lines? Yes, it must have been written for me like it’s in my destiny.

I told you I’ve not been initiating contact. I’ve not pathetically asked him out since I made up my mind. Basically, I was on the way to showing him what a cold, hard bitch I can be. But then I’ve also told you how it seems like the more I withdraw, the more he progresses. Bastard.

Then, out of the blue last night while I was having my usual bout of insomnia and surfing all forms of social media, this came in.


This was about an hour after we said our good nights.

Lionel Richie’s Hello floated right by me. Other than me sounding a little ghetto (I enjoy using my singlish very much), I was a little taken aback because since when did he care? So we continued to chat a little more because I obviously couldn’t sleep, and he was alert after his midnight shower. Then, this.


Surprise surprise.

I must remember to buy the lottery. In case you’re wondering why I defensively claimed I’m not a rapist, I called him liar liar pants on fire (I know right, such display of maturity) and he asked why I kept casting spells on him (though I really think he meant curse). I told him if I could cast spells, it wouldn’t just be his pants on fire. Yes, I’m such a perv.

And there he was, giving me comforting words on why I should not sell my soul in exchange for work and blah de blah de blah. And then, *JACKPOT* he suggested we go out! For a picnic no less.

Friends who know me must be sniggering away because for all things that I am, being “outdoorsy” is not my strong trait. Anywhere that does not have air-conditioning, I usually frown upon. And don’t get me started on how the mozzies will have the buffet of their lives feeding on me.

But I digress. Seriously, this man could have invited me to go dig trenches eight feet deep while wearing four sweaters in the Sahara desert and I’d probably clap gleefully like a sealion. Yup, I’m useless like that.

Well, he has thoughtfully suggested an evening soirée where it’ll hopefully be cooler and has announced that he’ll be solely in charge of all the food (probably afraid that he might die in the midst of The Gardens if I were to handle the food). While I did volunteer my services to help, he very kindly put me in charge of getting a picnic mat. He must either think I’m useless or he doesn’t want me to hinder any progress. Not that I’m complaining. My parents gave birth to me without any domestic genes.

Yup, everyone now knows I am indeed useless. If I previously ran a bet to see how I’d fare trying to resist his charms, those who put money on me would likely have to sell off a rib or two by now.

Oh how I’m looking forward to be fed on by mozzies!



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