The first post…



I am 32. A single gay spinster. And if I have to describe myself further, male.

When I was a child in a boisterous all boys family (during the Singapore’s stop-at-2 policy days, yes that’s how old I am) and playing kiddy games of make-believe with my similarly all-male cousins, I always play the princess role in a mistake thinking that when I grow up, my penis will shrivel and drop off and voila! a vagina will emerge. So you see, those christian groups are right. I am just ‘confused’. Well, and also, very ‘gay’. And I don’t think i can be saved.

Back to my state of stupendous singlehood. I am 32. Single. Unwanted. Left on the shelf.

If I were a fruit, I would be a peach that is cast aside by the farmer and left to rot on the branch. And even then, I won’t have the decency of staying on the branch. Judging by my usual luck, I would have been pecked by a rabid crow, fallen off the bough like rock-a-bye baby and fallen off somewhere between autumn and early winter into some muddy pit. And eventually getting rotten, black and wrinkly. Instead of being sweet and sugary and shipped into all kind of exciting destinations in the form of peach pie, peach ice-cream, peach puree, peach creme brulee, I am turning sour, bitter and alcoholic. And poisonous. Giving off fetid fumes of methane that promises to burn a hole in the ozone layer. No, I am not being metaphoric about 3 sentences ago.



If I were a car, it would be even more depressing. Nowadays when I go to Tantric on Friday nights, in the rare chance that I am in the mood for love*  for a rare man-hunt, I feel like I am a 3rd-hand used car from the last decade model that is passed over even for scrap. While all around me are shiny Ferrari and Porsche fresh from the army, polytechnics and secondary schools. I don’t want to have sex with them. I want to give them tuition and counsel them, cook for them and put them to bed; while looking for their fathers to have furious hot daddy-sex with.

*Aside: due to suspected early onset of andropause, increasingly there is less love and more moody.

Arrgghh! Back to real-life and no more waffling.

I was running today in the gym today. Faced before me is the dreadfully bad noon time channel 5 free-to-air TV programme of India: a love story where a weepy Brazilian lady is being cast aside by her callous Indian high caste boyfriend/husband/fling because his family cannot get along with her (cancel fling, keep boyfriend and husband). Eventually, he weeps and says he loves her but if his family insists, he will leave her. And he storms off (cross out boyfriend/husband, write in *Spinster*). Later she decided to go drown herself in the nearest ocean (obviously the Indian ocean).

Gym was supposed to be destressing?!?

I turned my head to the TV screen on the left. It was channel news asia featuring a dead 24 year old girl* whose eyes are gouged out by her psychotic unemployed 38 year old ex-boyfriend a few days before her marriage to him. He met her while she was a *SPINSTER* looking for love online on Love-links. Enough said.

*Elsie, may you rest in peace.

I got out and decided that I need to do something with my life. And quick. I don’t have much time! Spinsters seem to have very short lives before they get hammered/gouged/raped to death, judging by the stuff i am seeing these days.

I thought of at least one thing I am reasonably good at; aside from the amazing ability of playing computer games for 15 hours consecutively. And it was possibly writing. And why not write about the remarkable fragile existence of spinsterhood; and, if not getting out of it, then at least, living with it.

And hence, this blog.


My dear friend and sister-in-crime, Sean EC has sat with me for hours thinking up names for the blog, and we decided on imnotspinster (well and also because iamnotaspinster was taken up by someone else who didnt even make a pip-squeak of an effort to write a single entry).

I dedicate at least this first entry to him.


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