Clicking camera on speed

I found myself bowing down at its decks – the altar of choice, a church offering musical guidance to an increasing flock of Indie’s most faithful, and me - the genre's latest recruit. We went there every weekend, and to say that we partied a little is like saying that Kate Moss snorted a little. I miss that place sometimes. That's where I met him.

I might need to go traditional in a couple of weeks and I can't fit into my current kurungs because they're passe. And many friends have concurred that the bursting-from-the-seams look isn't actually me.

I hate buying kurungs. For reasons like (1) I really don't fancy the hassle of looking for The One at any of those annoyingly hot Geylang Complexes, (2) I know I can’t afford The One even if I do find it and (3) I’m too vain to not settle for The One and buy a cookie cutter.

In a span of 22 days, we sat on a plush sofa, the one nearest to the exit. I chose to sit there because of the emergence of my stye – yes, the stye on my left eye had ballooned to watermelonic proportions but I still came down for the anniversary party.

I hate sequins. And I hate wearing a ring.

I said yes as it just felt right. Why not right? From the exterior, he looks cute with limbs and lickable ears and other necessary physical appendages. I found him funny and after those dawn to dusk dates, urgent leaves and the fibs my doc solemnly grinned into medical certs, why not I ask myself?

But it feels great to acquire a man of my own.

Like me on a trigger high - I don't need to think. Just shoot and let live.