Today, Glenn and I challenged each other to a round of thumb-wrestling.

We set the stakes for losing: He would be called DICKFACE, and I would be called BOOBYFACE.

I think we all know who eventually won.


Signing off,
Boobyface

I collect tin cans. I like the way my stuff clink around when I shake them. But now they're empty simply because I got tired of remembering what I put inside each tin.

I am an ageist. I think Meryl Streep shouldn't dance like that in Mamma Mia: The Movie because she's old and it's disgusting because she's old. Secretly, I think it's because I'm absolutely terrified of getting old and useless and getting judged by others because I'm old and useless.

I'm a judgmental person. I judge, judge, JUDGE. But if you are my friend, you ought to know that it's killing me when you do something wrong and I try to take a neutral, if not, your side because you're my friend and every cell inside of me is trying not to judge you.

I love such a huge variety of things that sometimes I'm scared that I don't have an identity. I can't say that I'm hip and fun-loving because I like R&B music - I dig oldies, jazz and even classical pieces. It's like how I struggle not to detest China-born nationals because that would mean being racist to my own colour.

I tell little white lies all the time because I don't want people to discover who I really am.

Snapping at Cheryl to quit her antics; lamenting at Ying: "What, you're wearing this to that?"; squealing whenever Carol squeals..

Awww. I miss you guys!

My father bought me my first bicycle when I was eight.

I learnt to steer the vehicle steadily in just a couple of days. It was bright red, splattered blue and embarrassing. But it was mine, and I was proud of it; I embellished it with a silver bell, some confetti and scratches from my falls.

We had it chained right outside our door because we lived on the ground floor and it didn't make sense for me to lift it up and down the stairs whenever I wanted to cycle.

It also wasn't difficult to notice when the walls against which my bike leaned were bare. No one had seen the culprit.

Instead of grieving, I devised a plan to get it back.

I figured that whoever took my bike didn't live very far. So, for a week, I walked around all the playgrounds and cycling tracks searching for my bike or anything that resembled its built.

My hunch was right. I saw a little boy cycling it around the blocks. I didn't confront him. Because I knew his first reaction would be either to take off with my bike, or sprint off after he returned it to me with a lame excuse of "I was just borrowing."

I wanted him to pay for stealing my precious. I wanted him to face the consequences, the hurt that I'd been through for the past week.

I followed him home. I noted down his block and unit number. Then I made a few return trips to certify that my bicycle was a permanent fixture at his place.

When that was done, I notified my father, who was the rasher of my two parents. We grabbed photo evidence of me riding my bike when it was new, and marched to the boy's place. My dad then had an "adult talk" with the boy's parents.

They didn't seem too pleased. And neither did the boy, when he made eye contact with me, and I smirked.

Once in a while, I would look back and bite my lips wistfully, mourning the loss of my past.

I wonder if it's better to extract the happy moments and frame them in my mind, or to let reality bite and keep the scars where I can see them to serve as reminders.

Mostly, they remain as they are, buried in deep crevaces of my mind. But sometimes, like today, I take them out and for a peep, and try to make sense of what has passed.

I stop whatever I'm doing, and take in everything that's around me.

I see the sun saying goodbye to the day. The kids picking up their toys and dusting their hands. The yellowed leaves gathering underneath where the roots are.

Everyone and everything's moving on. I am, too. Stride by stride.

And it feels good.

If the answer isn't obvious already, please guess what we went as to the Nuffnang's Silent Halloween Party!

I know we're like kittens compared to the scary ghouls and what-nots, but please believe us when we say that we've tried our best being scary, but everything went wrong at the last moment and we decided that...