Reasons why I am not keen on Satan's cameo.

Allegedly, when the world is about to end, the devil makes a cameo. In my head, he would turn up, all rock-star like, make his identity and presence known ala Lestat from Queen of the Damned and he would unleash a massive truckload of havoc. Being a fan of Anne Rice, I have some concerns about that movie, but we'll talk about that some other time.

Here is a few reasons why I am not to keen on the devil making an appearance when shit hits the fan.

1. Ravers

Apparently, drugs were not made by scientists or bored science students with a curious access to a meth lab. They were made by our good old mate, Morningstar. So, by him being the creator of all that is mind-numbing and vomit-inducing, he would surely bathe the earth with them cutely-packaged pills to be knocked back by the Elixir of Good Times - alcohol, which I am guessing would be his piss. Therefore, Ketamine - Check, Sambucca - Check. Or, Cannabis - Check, Stella Artois - Check. See, in most cases where apocalypse had no part in it, when weed was mixed with booze, the effects were quite hilarious for the onlookers but not the part-takers. So maybe, in this case, it might prove to be quite entertaining to my person. Since I am talking now about Luci being the bringer of Good and Messy Times, let us just assume that the Cannabis seed is really the seed of his loins.

Next, music. As said in I, Lucifer, which is an amazing book that was about Luci, he claimed that he invented music. Fair enough. In good music, church organs had no part in it whatsoever.

Drugs - Check, Alcohol - Check, Music - Check. And there we have it. In a time where the world is going up in flames and we are all flinging poo at each other, we are going to have a fucking rave. Junkies would be shooting smack at the side. I would be there in the mayhem sighing. Why can't we fucking have zombies instead? But then, they might all OD and since there would be no place in Hell for them, they would roam the earth, so maybe I might get what I want after all.

2. Swingers and leather-clad Gimps

Obviously, Sex was created by Luci. Dutiful sexing with hopes to reproduce and create massive numbers for whatever religion - God person. Hardcore fucking for the hell of it followed by looking at each other after the deed going 'Fucking hell, that was phenomenal.' - Luci.

Sex, drugs, alcohol, music, chaos. Cue for the swingers to come out with propositions of partner-swapping.

In the midst of it all where I would end up being poked by a random penis or two, a leather-clad, poo-covered person would turn up and ask to be whipped senseless because that is how he gets his rocks off. And with it being Satan's day and all, men won't have a recovery time. They won't need to nap and recharge, taking that all-important alone time women need. And there will be no cuddles if there are to be no naps. So most likely, we'd get hammered until our vaginas are steaming up and eventually catch hell-fire.

I'm in a rave, being mass-raped and watching my partner get mass-raped or maybe enjoying being fellated by four or five different women of different ethnicities and this twat just turned up asking me to whip him shitless. And for fuck's sake, they are playing Techno Garbage now. At least play some Barry White for a moment.

3. Spawns of Satan

You know those children you see on Jo Frost's Supernanny? Yes, them. You know the worst breed of them spawns? The English Spawns of Satan. Snotty, tetchy, vile and so fucking horrendous in the Pick 'n' Mix aisle. That is where they will most likely be found. And FOHK OFF MAMMEH! sounds soul-destroying when screamed a few decibels within a point of permanent hearing-impairment.

When those women turned up on whatever bleeding heart programmes like Jeremy Kyle or Jerry Springer with a paternity test and then it turned out that the kid belonged to none of the four men she had dragged with her on-stage, that kid is most definitely Satan's. That is the only logical explanation since the woman herself looked flabbergasted.

So, when the world is going tits up, Daddy Dear will turn up and claim his spawns. Hopefully, I'd be in that list somewhere. Or I'd be in front of him all dishevelled from that swinging session with a massive migraine from the music saying 'Fucking say I'm yours because my mother kept saying I can't be hers. Sort me out, please'. But then he would look at me and say 'How the fuck can you be mine when you cannot even tolerate the good things I bring to this place?'. So yeah. That theory dashed there. Maybe then, he would come out and say that Gaga is the bastard child of a Minotaur as well.

That is all the issues I have for now. Feel free to input what your concerns are.

I'll just be glad I would get to loot, I mean Retail-Therapize, when I can get the chance to get away from it all, really.

I'm the DJ's Missus.

My fiance is a DJ. A Disc Jockey. Look at me when I'm saying this because there is not a hint of pride in it. None of the Pop My Collar and Shake My Tail Feather going on here. It is his career, his passion and I do get the high that he gets when he is up there in front of his audience mixing his tunes and making his beats. That is him up there, separate from me. I appreciate that as his outlet. You will never find me on that fucking stage next to him beaming going Yeaaaaaaah this is my man and he is the awesomest and stuff because he is a DJ and when we go home tonight I will suck him off like there is no tomorrow. See, I don't get that whole thing. Nine times out of ten when I am seen doing that, Jaz knows that I am clearly just taking the fucking piss because A) I don't do Techno, House, Dubstep, Jungle, Drum n Bass, B) He knows I will suck him off like there is no tomorrow nonetheless and C) He knows that I think most DJs with their gangsta swagga are Twats. This is England where even the fucking sewage cleaner moonlights as a freelance DJ at night.

Just like I will turn up at his gigs, try to get smashed off my face and be there just for him. I don't care about the girls turning up with their sky-high heels and minis and try to suck off any pseudo-celebrity in sight. They have their issues and their teenage naivete. Let them eat cake. There is something about that glow on his face when he is doing what he loves and that is what I am there for. Just to see that smile when he gets off the stage and smothers me in his kisses that telepathically translates to Tell Me I Was Fucking Awesome and I dutifully say You were amazing, Baby. I don't see myself hanging on to him throughout an entire event just to pile-drive that message that he was with me. If he doesn't know that he was with me already and he would like to accept the offer of seven girls to fellate him behind the decks then he surely will have something coming. If other girls would like to take my place then go on then, you can pick up where I left off with his dirty laundry and bear him making animal-crying-sounds when you tuck into your meat dish and him into his vegetables. You can put up with his tardiness, his slow-as-fuck reaction time and his tendencies to take the piss when you are on the brink of an emotional melt-down.

So really, just like he lets me get on with my whatever while I sit here on the computer, be it blogging, Photoshopping, watching Thundercats on Youtube or head-banging. That is when he gets to see me just be and he comes in and drop a kiss on my head saying 'Weet wooh, baby, 600 hits on your ranting space eh? You're like, the fucking awesomeriest and stuff and all that, okay?' and gets on with his life.

I am not trying top let people know that we are the most perfect couple in the world. I just want them to stop looking me like I just inserted a cacti into my secret bits when I say 'I don't know. I know fuck all about DnB and Dubstep. I don't really give a shit, to be honest.' and stop asking me WHY!? BUT YOU ARE WITH JAZ! As though I was blaspheming. Why won't you let your boyfriend poke you up the arse? Because you don't like it, do you? See, same principle. Twats.

Of course I want him to succeed and be happy because if he succeeds and earn lots of money AND he is happy, he would not mind me asking him to build me a fucking boudoir with Damask wallpapers, would he? AND, all the Giuseppe Zanotti's in my own walk-in, velvet-lined drawers filled with Mauboussins and a massive larder filled with biscuits.

So really, don't mind me head-bopping in the corner. I was gyrating to Queen that was on my iPod, actually. But yes, Jaz was awesome, wasn't he? I'd do him.

Yeah? Fuck Off.

Dad, I want to become a stripper.

See, the thing was, I have a deeper relationship with my dad, where I can ask him a question and he would actually take the time to ponder over my questions and answer them, even though they were downright ridiculous. Take my statement where I told him, somewhere during my late teens (and this was when all hopes of me ever becoming a vampire had gone out the window and I had discovered the joy that was Suntanning Within An Inch Of My Life), that I aspired to be a stripper when I grow up. Obviously, I was having a laugh. Obviously, I was only trying to get a reaction out of him and wonder if somewhere deep inside that calm, collected man there was a monster of a father who would belt me for saying such things. It had seemed unfair that my mother was the psychopath that she was, with the love of bashing the kids with anything within reach, from a manky dishcloth to 4-inch pumps. But what my father had said was, 'Are you certain of this? Think about it, Girl. It's not an easy market to get into. If you had not messed about with your college education, you would have actually made something out of yourself. But no, you cannot do that. However lucrative the rewards are.' I come from an Asian country, an Asian household where we usually get called by our gender. Girl for myself, Boy for my brother and Little Girl for the house cat. See, if I had asked my mother if I could become a stripper she would have said, 'WHY are you doing this to me, Insert Full Name As Per Birth Cert? What am I going to tell my brothers? What will the relatives say? Where have I gone wrong with you?'. Because everything is a personal attack to her. I had not aspired to become a stripper because I loved stripping and swashing about my flabby bits to her. I had wanted to do so just to make her a laughing stock. Still, I do say such things just to wind her up and have a giggle about it with my dad afterwards. I have told my dad, giggling, 'You poor sod, being married to that. What the fuck was going through your mind? Bet you regret making that choice based on how her legs went up to her armpits and she was so fair she glowed in the dark, didn't you? Because look at her now. On the brink of menopause, frizzy, angry and ever so vulgar.'. To that my dad always rolled his eyes and said something along the lines of She is your mother and you are going to turn into that sooner if not later and I will live by my mistakes. I love my father. I can talk about aliens and wonder with him if we actually came from another planet. Usually, when my mom walked into the room, he'd say 'But no. We are all god's creatures. We came from the earth like the prophets said.' and I'd nod, dutifully, because Mom Is In The Room and her fragile mind cannot handle that God did not paint the skies. Or something.

I'm being mean, aren't I? I love my mother to bits. She's just a bit loopy at the best of times and angry the rest of it. My mother gives the best cuddles, the best kisses, cooks the best dishes and she removes the toughest of stains. My dad just lets me hang on to an idea and run away with it until the moment comes when I would collide with my mother and I'd stop.  

I am 25 and I STILL do not know what I want to be when I grow up, when growing up eventually takes place.    I had wanted to become a journalist at one point but that was dashed when my Mom asked me, 'What the hell are you going to write about then? The rubbish that was in your diary?'. Yes, Mother, because if you work with The Straits Times, you can actually begin an article with Dear Diary, I hate my mother so, can I push her off the stairs? when the more important news would be say, the Wall Street crashing. But no, my diary contents would interest the residents of Singapore more. She read my diary and I never lived it down, you know. Of all pages that she could be fixated on, it was that one that began with me wanting to push her off the stairs. Of course, if I was her, I'd be horrified as well and I'd make sure I had locked my teenage self in the room for all of eternity for my own self-preservation. But if I had remembered correctly, that happened because I had come home from a date with a massive love bite and she had gone on and on and fucking on for hours about what sort of a prostitute I had turned into. I was starting to wonder then if I should charge the boys that had fiddled with my tits. So I had said to her that I was not a prostitute because I had not charged them a single cent and then she called me A Slag and it was around then I had thought that she must be very miserable with her life and I should just push her off so that she can go off screaming Into The Light. I was lucky if I could land a date a month and she was screaming about how she had raised a slut and I was feeling a bit miffed. Just one fucking date where I had let a blooming boy suck the bejesus out of my neck. Was she not worried that I might die of internal bleeding or something? 

Oh, Mother. 

I should re-name my blog to Oh, Mother. 

But then... Oh hi, Vagina! seems apt. For now. 

I am in the Matrix?

I regret watching the Matrix now because now everything I say is null and void. I told Jaz an hour ago that I am hungry with hopes that he would take it as a hint that we should go to the fucking shops and get groceries already. But no, he said... 


'Your real body is actually in a mucous-filled pod and machines are feeding off your life force.'


So therefore, this hunger is not real. Nothing is real.

Well then... That lump of dirty laundry is not real as well. Neither is the pile of dirty dishes.

So tonight, we won't need to cuddle. Because cuddling is not really real when your real body is in a mucous-filled pod.

I say cuddle but what I mean is fuck, really.

Bless your fragile minds.

Oh damn. I'm using the vagina as a bargaining tool now. Damn it. Tsk. I need to work on my speech. One that does not involve the Secret Bits be used as part of a barter trade.

If you don't buy me that bag, I won't let you have My Secret.

Well, Alice. You're fucked now.