Resolution 2013: The pink bachelor strikes

I am deeply upset and ashamed of myself for not writing any damn thing into my blog for the past one year. I can bear anything except guilt and spending dateless Saturday nights at home with my parents watching children sing Britney Spears in grocery-sponsored variety shows. Fail.
First off, I promise to be less procrastinating with my blog. It has honestly been a year with more living and f**king, than writing. Hell, I am writing about my resolutions as late as February! What’s next? On hindsight, at least I am doing it before the Chinese New Year.
A life unexamined is a life not worth living, so quote I from Socrates. But I think the whole of 2012 has left me too busy living to do any examining or writing. The problem about blogging, or well writing in general, is that living and writing bear an inverse relation. The more things are happening in life, the less time I have to sit in a café or in a corner and type out random spinstery wailings onto this blog.
Furthermore, I find it an anatomical challenge to be leaning over a beach chair, typing into my laptop while pleasuring a beautiful stranger working hard to pound his flesh into me.
Talking about anatomy, secondly resolution: I am going to cut my body fat and finally be a proud owner of a six-pecs. No, not pectorals but 6 sacred chao siew pau shaped muscles in a grid like arrangement in the center of my tummy like a carebear tattoo (except instead of expelling bad foreign objects from carebear land, it is going to attract my favourite guys and lure them into me like flies caught on a chameleon’s tongue). It is going to be my holy grail that I will work for. Once I get it, I will strut into clubs and public pools and beach parties and join the elite group of pan-asian and hot-asian and hot blond guys on the raised platform and truly say, yes, I have arrived; meanwhile, the lesser mortals will look at us in both envy, jealous and other 7 deadly sins –mainly Lust.
Thirdly, I must start saving. My bank account, while nowhere as badly in debt as American’s economy, is in torrid straits – for someone who has ventured out into job  market for close to a decade. Let’s just say when I can’t afford to join my tertiary institution going siblings, surviving on the pittance of the trio of tuition jobs, on their trip to Taiwan, it is a bad sign.
Fourth, I must find a man. A good one for keeps. The things about the Singaporean gay scene is that while I may have (thanks to our optimal position in the pathway between the east and west and improved by modern amenities like jack’d and grindr) a huge buffet spread of men scurrying here and there and being in the delightful position of still being able to choose, the dating scene for a self-avowed potato-queen is simply this:
1) Not only are all the guys I want to actually date just looking for fun
2) Even the guys I don’t want to date are showing me that they are scoring X number of ‘hits’ on jack’d or other various dating apps (yes, the technological sword cuts both ways, and hard) and by virtue of my country men’s bad taste, I should date them too.
One word: no.
Lastly, I shall strive to wear less tank tops.

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