Original Sin

My first time was when I was nine. 

I knew it was wrong, but I was really curious.

The next time I did it, I was slightly older -- 15.

And this time, I did it blatantly under my mum's roof.

You're a big boy now, I'm told. It's okay. 

And so I innocently took the crystal glass from this very naughty person and had my first cautious sip of whiskey (neat). 

"How? Nice or not," asks my mum Mrs Lee,who ought to be on the watch list of family social services. 

Truth be told, I didn't like the whiskey one bit, but I drank it anyway because Mrs Lee said I needed to learn how to handle alcohol as a man and I should learn to do so under her supervision. 

And when I looked back to the first time when I sipped red wine at nine (it was after midnight mass so there was celebratory concession), I too remember not liking it. 

Fast forward to now; not only am I not hating it, I'm giving alcohol a tad too much love. 

When it's time to celebrate, drink. When I'm alone, drink. When I'm back from work and haven't even undone my tie, drink.

Whenever my partner J shakes his head at my wine glass, I smile and tell him it's good for the heart. 

When my godson visits, and I'm having a drink with his dad, I tell the innocent li'l chap that "papa is having a medicinal drink so you can't try it."

It wasn't until late last year when I realised I am indeed having too much to drink (four bottles of wine a week when I'm feeling moderate and sometimes, seven a week). 

How did I get here?

Well, to be fair, after my bitter whiskey encounter, the next time I drank was when I was a student in Australia, where wine is so cheap you can buy it with loose change. 

It didn't help either that in my first year of uni, I had stayed in a Catholic dorm where wine drinking was not frowned upon. 

Whenever we had our monthly formal dinners, we would have free flow of wine.

By year two when I moved out to stay with friends, we had by then each developed the trendy habit of having wine with food. 

It started off with a harmless bottle of white wine shared among my young, thirsty friends, over fish and chips.

And whenever we had house parties, someone would buy wine. 

And so as not to allow the wine to expire, I took one for the team and single-handedly took care of the wine.

From there, I took two, three and more bottles of wine.

In my third year, I was at my most stressed academic life. I was constantly worried about living the legacy of all Asian students who need to ace not just their subjects but also to basically top the cohort (Stanley my sex bunny friend would love to top the cohort, but today, he's not in my story).

My stress led to sleepless nights and for nearly a year, I couldn't easily drift to sleep. 

And so, I turned to alcohol, guzzling down one glass every night just to get that comfortable high that would lull me to sleep. 

By the time I graduated and started work life, I had developed a very strong threshold for alcohol. 

I could easily down glasses of beer, shots, cocktails, wine at social functions and still walk in a straight line.

When I bought my own place, my sister gave me a wine cooler and frequently bought me expensive wine, unwittingly inheriting Mrs Lee's role of passing down the alcohol-feeding tradition.

It soon became a lifestyle: Having friends and family over with food and wine.

And then it became a habit. 

I would come home after a super long day and the moment I'm home alone, I'd roll up my sleeves, loosen my tie and pour myself a glass of wine. 

The satisfying pop of the cork, the soft swish of wine gushing out of the bottle, and therapeutic swirl of the glass, and suddenly everything feels right. 

Except it's not.

Friends would joke that I'm alcoholic. Heck, sometimes, even I refer to myself as alcoholic. 

But they meant nothing. They were conversation starters. Meaningless chatter. Not actual labels.

My partner J doesn't like it when I drink but would always allow me a glass or two when we go out for a nice meal.

He would at most sniff me after dinner, scrunch up his nose and say "you smell like vomit". But he never once told me to quit or stop drinking. 

Perhaps, I shouldn't wait for that day to come. 

I mean, I am highly functional -- with or without alcohol.

I can pour myself a stiff drink, open my office laptop and do my work without making any error.

And I don't shiver in cold turkey when I'm without alcohol

There also isn't a beer belly to remind me that I was turning my body into a barrel. 

But of late, I am slowly beginning to realise that I am perhaps drinking a tad too much.

I used to tell myself it's okay to drink alone because I am enjoying the taste of the wine.

Recently, I started becoming homesick, and the wine -- no matter how much I liked it before -- didn't taste the same anymore.

There was no longer joy or beauty with every sip. 

Instead, I felt empty inside, as if I needed to fill the void by feeling the wine burn my insides as it made its downward spiral inside me.

It was a bitter realisation to swallow. 

On Dec 29, 2020, I made a vow to cut down -- not cut out -- alcohol as my new year resolution. 

Two bottles a week, down from four for a start. 

I need to ease myself slowly so that this becomes sustainable. 

I won't cut off ties totally with wine. I'll cut myself some slack and go with the flow on merry occasions. 

But I won't be tangled in my alcoholic mess like before. 

It's been nearly two weeks since I last touched wine, just to prove to myself that I am capable of staying away from it if I want to. 

And the next time I do drink, it'd be because it's a special occasion -- and because I want to. 

Not that I need to. 

Yeah, that sounds like a good strategy. 

I will drink to that. 

 

 

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people 

Sorry of my Life

We've often been taught to not do things we'd regret later.

Somehow, we don't always learn this lesson.

No matter how much we try, we often have regrets in life.

Stanley my sex bunny friend often lives with such dilemma.

I regret sleeping with him - he's not that cute in retrospect. Maybe I was just drunk.
I regret not sleeping with him. He's so cute in retrospect. Maybe he was not that drunk. 

But I'm talking about more than such shallow regrets.

Bigger, deeper sort of regrets.  

Stanley tells me he too, has his fair share of very deep regrets.

I'm scared to know what he meant.

I write about the topic of regrets today because recently, it came up in a conversation with some friends over beer.

Because they were new friends I made here in Myanmar, I didn't share very much with them.

My regrets are quite personal.

And this one is my deepest.

When I was in secondary school, I discovered that I was different.

Gay.

And it was something I couldn't accept, often struggling to come to terms with it and always questioning why the hell I'm gay.

When I was 13, I made a vow to myself that I will fight this gayness.

And so, I did just that, fight being the operative word.

In school, I tried to man up with sports like track and field and Judo.

By 14, I was very good at Judo, not so good at track and field, but most importantly, I portrayed myself as a straight, sporty jock.

But that was not enough.

Deep in my heart, I am immensely afraid of being found out I'm gay.

So I decided to create distractions - by bullying the more effeminate guys in school, so that the attention is on them rather than me.

One of them is Kenneth.

Quiet, skinny and always minding his own business by being alone during recess and avoiding coming into contact with other boys.

But no. Kenneth's defensive and protective nature was non of my business.

I decided to be a big bully and started calling the poor boy names which I would never have wanted to be called.

The other boys whom I led were just happy to be part of a group and entertained by the sight of Kenneth squriming away from us.

The more Kenneth ran away from me, the more empowered I felt, and in retrospect, the more shameful I was.

But I was on such a high being the school jock (and school jerk) who nobody noticed was gay deep inside.

The name calling culminated in something more serious soon.

I can't remember what led me to doing it, but I recall leading my group of boys towards Kenneth during recess time.

I walked into Kenneth's classroom, broke coloured chalk into smaller pieces and handed them to my gang.

Kenneth, who was reading in class alone, physically recoiled by the sight of the seven of us surrounding him.

On my command, we threw chalk at him, mottling Kenneth's pristine-white school uniform with multiple coloured marks, each coloured splatter on his shirt a reminder of my dark secret.

Soon, I grew tired of bullying Kenneth and we all moved on.

But every time I thought about Kenneth, I felt deeply ashamed.

When I finally came to my senses as a young adult, it was too late.

Kenneth had blocked me when I tried to befriend him on Facebook years later. And when I saw him outside when we were in our early twenties, Kenneth avoided eye contact with me and quickly wriggled into the crowd to get away from his biggest tormentor.

Last I heard, Kenneth migrated after national service.

His Facebook account is seldom updated and his whereabouts unknown, since he didn't have many friends back in secondary school and no one knew much of him.

Today, as I type this, I am filled with regret for doing what I did to Kenneth.

Attacking someone like me who needed just as much protection from shame, discrimination and bullying is a cowardly act.

I have nothing but regret.

Kenneth will never know this.

And even if he does, I cannot expect Kenneth to forgive me for the unkind bullying I subjected him to.

The best apology I can offer is to never ever do this to anyone, and to stop bullying if I can see it.

Perhaps, not approaching Kenneth to say sorry to him is the best, the kindest, and most merciful apology to him.

Because if I do manage to say sorry to Kenneth, the only closure I get is for myself.

And then I walk away, leaving his healed scars open for him to bear.

Kenneth, I'm very, very, very sorry.

And you don't have to forgive me.

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Room For Improvement

Not too long ago, Stanley my sex bunny friend asked me to tag along for his hunt: The hunt for the perfect Interior Designer.

After having bought his own place recently, and giving the theme of his home much thought, Stanley is finally ready to meet the man of his place.

The man (or woman) who would be tasked with handling his hard.... earned money to convert the resale flat into his dream home.

Leave it to the speed dating expert to line up multiple potentials within the span of a day.

This way, we won't waste time, says Stanley.

He's decided to meet potential interior designers in our home turf: Rail Mall, a place that's near to my mum and Stanley's parental home.

It's home ground.

And when we hunt, we hunt best in familiar territory, was Stanley's reason.

At 11am, we were set to meet the first ID.

Stanley had been shortlisting these designers based on their work on Qanvast.

First up, a heavily made up ah lian named Kimberly.

"No, no, no, let me buy you a drink, please. I insist," Stanley told Miss Ah Lian two minutes into our meeting. "Imagine if you meet 10 potential clients and you had to pay for coffee, you'll be making a loss!"

Miss Ah Lian giggled coyly, happy to be treated so lovingly by a man whom she knows will never buy her coffee to get into her tight Aramni jeans.

Over at the Coffee Bean counter, Stanley told me this was his tactic.

"If I paid for drinks, I won't feel guilty for rejecting her if I don't like her ideas".

As we set our respective drinks down, Stanley cut to the chase.

"Okay, show me what you've got," said Stanley, sounding decisively unsexual for the first time in his life.

Miss Ah Lian got down to work, sketching her ideas on a piece of paper, showing how she would hack certain walls and design a place for Stanley.

My friend nodded politely and sipped his mocha latte continuously, not uttering anything apart from an occasional mm and ah.

"Okay, thank you Kim -- you don't mind if I called you Kim right -- for your time," Stanley said 15 minutes later, all business-like.

"I don't like her," Stanley said. "And it's mainly because she doesn't have what I want."

I was scared to ask what it was that Miss Ah Lian was lacking.

"She didn't ask me what I wanted. And she went right into designing my house the way she sees it. What about me? Did she even ask me what I wanted?" Stanley said.

"So, it's a no for me."

Fair enough. Miss Ah Lian was very template-like.

It was as if out of 10 clients, Miss Ah Lian would propose the same idea to all of them.

Up next, a chubby and sweaty designer named Alan.

Again, Stanley bought us another round of drinks and we got down to business.

"Okay," Alan said, wiping beads of sweat on his forehead, cheeks and upper lips.

I eyed his wet armpit sweat patches and secretly wished I could excuse myself.

"Tell me what exactly what you want, and I'll design it for you," said the sweaty designer.

Stanley stared at Alan for a while and said, "I don't know. Why don't you tell me".

Alan began sweating on cue.

"Oh, I thought it'd be easier if you just told me what you wanted and then we can carry out that design for you," the chubby designer said.

"Nope. I'm not using him," Stanley said after Alan left.

"Who's the designer here? If you can't tell me what to do and you need to take specific instructions from me... then you're but a mere contractor," Stanley said coldly.

Okay, Goldilocks.

Stanley insists he's not being difficult.

I have very strict criteria for these designers. They have to prove themselves, he says.

This coming from a man who has no standards, no criteria when it comes to his Tinder and Grindr hookups.

Which is why the third and final designer lined up that day was perfect.

Thompson (or "oh, just Thomp please) is a very fair, clean-cut guy in his early thirties.

Large puppy eyes framed by a pair of black, dark nerdy specs. And he has the cutest goatee.

Thomp is tall and slightly buff and judging from the way he laughs and smiles, he looks like he had just been invited to tea by his best friend's slutty mother who's out to seduce him.

Which, at that point, isn't far from the truth.

"Oh, let me buy you coffee please," Stanley said sultrily. "So that the next time we meet, drinks will have to be on you."

At the drinks counter, Stanley whispered to me that the next time drinks is on Thomp, it would be some form of thick milk shake with whipped cream which will be literally on Thomp's slightly buff body.

Before Stanley could say anything, Thomp said: "So, Stanley, before we start, why don't you tell me more about yourself?"

That got Stanley very stirred.

"Well, I am single," Stanley said, putting the most vital piece of information right at the very top.

"And I don't like to be top," he said next.

Thomp took a sip of his drink and stifled a smile.

"By that, I mean, I don't like to be a domineering client. I'm really easy. I'm really flexible," Stanley said, taking full control of the conversation.

"Tell me about your lifestyle," Thomp said.

I was beginning to sweat like the previous chubby designer, afraid of what details Stanley might spill.

Because when Stanley does spill, it's not just dirty deeds, but also his seeds that will come out, and I don't want to be there when the nightmare happens.

Turns out, there's nothing for me to worry about.

Thomp had genuinely wanted to know Stanley's lifestyle so that he can make suggestions on how to design a place to suit his habits.

"I like him," Stanley mouthed to me when Thomp wasn't looking.

And truth me told, I liked Thomp too.

He's meticulous and I'm particularly impressed by the fact that he bothers finding out his clients' hobbies and interests before tailoring a design for them.

For Stanley, Thomp suggested a cosy reading corner near his living room window. And that area would also feature a built-in longish table so that friends who're over for dinner can adjourn to that area for dessert.

"Or it could well be a place for you and your friends to have pre-dinner drinks while waiting for the sun to set," Thomp said. "Or, you know, it could be a place for you and your special one to sit in the morning with a cup of hot chocolate, waiting to see the sunrise."

"This sounds promising," Stanley said instinctively, excited by the prospects of the word rise.

I was immediately bought over.

A designer who cares about your lifestyle habits is a good designer.

I made a mental note to introduce Thomp to my friends who're looking for a designer.

Though not Carl.

Anyone who talks to Carl would naturally hack down all walls and give his home a minimalist theme after talking to our dense friend, to reflect his personality.

But I digress.

"I love your concept. I love your idea," Stanley said, giggling like a shy school girl.

"I mean, I would like to live in a beautifully designed home. But I don't want to live in a show flat, you know what I mean. Unless the show flat comes with models," Stanley said, and added "male models."

Thomp laughed politely.

After detailing plans for Stanley's living room (which would also feature an area for Stanley to display his alcohol selection), Thomp moved on to the bedroom.

"Mmm, I'm excited now," Stanley said. "We're entering my bedroom."

"Many of my clients want a walk-in wardrobe, but I want to hear your views first, because a walk-in wardrobe is popular but may not suit everyone," Thomp said.

"I totally agree," Stanley replied. "But I do want a walk-in wardrobe instead of a closet. If I wanted a closet, I would have stayed inside it and not walked out."

Thomp again laughed.

"You're really funny," he said, amused by my sex bunny friend.

Then, making notes on his sketch pad, Thomp added "okay, so you'll want a walk-in wardrobe. Sure. I'll knock down this wall here, and then reconstruct one here, so that you have a comfortably big space for that."

"I like the sound of that," Stanley the size queen said.

As for the bed, Thomp suggested Stanley customise a bed frame.

"Queen size bed?" Thomp asked.

"Absolutely correct. Queen is correct," Stanley smiled suggestively at Thomp.

"I mean, I'm single, but a Queen sized bed is good. I'm not seeing any girl," Stanley said, then added "ever."

Thomp smiled and instinctively twirled his wedding band as if invoking some form of divine protection from this hungry client of his.

By the end of Thomp's pitch, Stanley was obviously on a high.

I could tell from his looks that he's found the guy. The guy whom he wants for his place, if only just as a designer.

"I'm very sorry if I asked you so many questions or took up so much of your time," Stanley told Thomp towards the end of the meeting.

"It's just that, for me, it's very important for me to explore the body of works of all my interior designers," said Stanley who, to his credit, did not stress the words explore, body and interior.

Thomp looked genuinely touched and said thank you.

"I think it's fair for me to say that I am appointing you as my man," said Stanley who's beginning to falter.

"I want you to take on this job. Break down all our barriers and walls. And put your skills and drills to good use," he said, and reached out to shake Thomp's hand.

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Body of Work

The start of the new year is often the start of many peoples' body transformation journey. 

The never-ending cycle goes like this:

Nearing December, we binge on log cakes, turkey, and basically any animal that couldn't swiftly escape captivity and ends up being butchered and thrown into a boiling pot or a sizzling pan. 

The feasting is enjoyable but the very same mouth that's accepting too many forkfuls of cooked carcasses is also spewing words of guilt at the same time. 

Oh my god, this is so good, but so fattening. This is so sinful.  I can't stop eating!

We console ourselves and one another that we can always diet next year and we seal the promise by picking up more booze to toast to that.

And then the next year comes and everyone is hopeful and energised because the new year brings new hope to our body transformation journey.

Plans are drawn up, diet schedules fixed, gym memberships signed. 

We tie banners around our foreheads and throw fist pumps and charge forward with zest. 

Out of 10, six would drop out of the race in the first quarter of the year. 

The dieting is too unsustainable -- very hard to eat clean every one leh. Intermittent fasting doesn't make sense. I'm hungry all the time!

Balancing work and workouts is never easy. It's been a long day. I'll work out tomorrow. Oh, I can't. I have a morning meeting and late-night entertaining to do. 

And some habits are absolutely impossible to break: I cannot not have wine with dinner. And dessert is stored in a separate stomach (yes, that's true -- that separate compartment is called the belly).

The remaining four who move on to the next quarter would have their own struggles too.

Two out of the four would have hit a wall and they're not losing as much fat or gaining as much muscles.

One of them would give up, the other one would continue doing the same thing with not much progress. 

The remaining two who're still in the running for America's Next Top Model strive on, pumping iron, munching on cardboard to get that perfect shape.

By the third quarter, these warriors see results and they're eager to show off to the world.

They'd strip to near nudity and take photos for IG with annoying captions like "Don't know what to eat for breakfast today" while posing only with a spoon, a pair of shorts and nothing else. 

Of the two, one of them would reward himself with all the hard work and start binging in November. 

And then, the overeating and the guilt would arise, and on Dec 31, the fella would, along with nine other failed contestants, embark on that never-ending loop of body transformation journey yet again. 

"Errr... and your point is?" Stanley my sex bunny friend responds, looking at me with his eyes ready to roll towards heaven.

"Yah, Adam. What is your point actually," echoes Carl the dense one who genuinely doesn't know what's going on most of the time. 

In fact, Carl often echoes questions so much that echoing is all that you can hear if you were to enter Carl's head space and call out to the empty space at large.

Stanley on the other hand, is a piece of work.

If you so much as to shout in the sex bunny's head space, you will likely hear voices of other men there, some of whom trapped from his past sexcapades and are likely asking for your help. 

The three of us are in our usual video call and the topic of losing weight came naturally. 

"I think I need to lose weight," said Carl the dense one, who, without further ado, began doing squats, seizing every moment of his life.

Also seizing was Stanley.

"I also want to lose this much fat," he said, force-pinching a thin layer of flesh from his taut torso.

Stanley is one of those who at age 42 remains to be a lean mean fighting machine -- mean being the operative word. 

"Hey, take that back," Stanley barked at me, before turning his attention to Carl, adding "Carl dear, you don't need to lose weight. But you do need to start working out your legs before they snap like twigs."

Carl, who never gets the memo and never gets sarcasm, beamed with delight, patting his python-size biceps. 

All his life, Carl had focused his humanly energy on pumping iron, making his biceps swell to unhumanly proportions. 

Like all other basic gym gays, Carl devotes his life in the gym and is thus very top heavy.

Stanley, who is neither top nor heavy, spends much of his workout life on the running tracks, which explains his lean physique.  

I, being the only happily attached man among the group, am no longer burdened by the weights of the dumbbell on my shoulders since my partner J will love me even if my body came in the form of a brown leather sofa.

And as I sit on my oversized, comfy couch typing this blog post (while munching on my second packet of potato chips), I wonder when we will ever stop fussing over our body image.

Growing up, I had been conscious of my own body. I knew I didn't want to be the fat kid in school, but I also didn't have much to worry about 'cos I was for the longest time, a skinny kid from all the extra curricular activities I had been doing.

Stanley the sex bunny is also very conscious of his own body.

I fully embrace and am aware of all my erogenous zones, he would say. 

Friends around me are mostly conscious of their bodies. 

Some are more open than others, and can frankly share their insecurities about what they don't like about their bodies.

Others are too open and can frankly do with more clothes on IG. 

Nobody wants to see your naked torso while they're scrolling their phones on the toilet bowl please. And if you want to show off your body on social media, don't be a humble brag by posing half naked on your balcony with a meaningless caption like "feeling grateful for the morning sun." I think you would gain more respect by just saying "this is my hot bod, and I'd like you to worship it".

But I digress. 

Whether we are gay or straight, man or woman, we would always have insecurities in our bods. 

And even if we are proud of our bods, we will feel insecure too -- will we always have those good bods? Will they one day sag?

Regardless, being aware of one's body image and wanting to pursue a better bod is not a bad thing.

Whether you couch it as "developing a healthy lifestyle" or wanting to carve out a great bod so that people can worship you, it's a phenomenon that will never go away.

The perpetual cycle of wanting a good bod will always be in trend.

And there's nothing wrong with pursuing a hot bod, Stanley the sex bunny says.

"I'm constantly going after hot bods especially those that don't belong to me -- and that's perfectly healthy. 

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Reborn

We tend to mark the start of each new year with hope.

This year, it's particularly significant. 

The prospects of vaccines circulating the world to snuff out COIVD-19 is both satisfying and promising. 

Stanley my sex bunny friend is particularly excited by the vaccine. 

The promise of being pricked -- even if it's by a sharp needle -- is a joyous occasion, given that Stanley had tried to be as virginal as possible in the last 12 months. 

"I swear if a cute guy were to so much look in my direction -- and not even necessarily directly at me -- I could get pregnant with his child," Stanley said over our weekly WhatsApp video call the other day. 

Carl instinctively patted his flat, washboard abs, the product of he and his newfound online fitness trainer persona Jeremy Sry.   

"I hope that when they give me my vaccine, they do so the traditional way," Stanley said, starting to stand up from his bed. "I would like them to jab my ass because trust me, there hasn't been much of such action in the past year," he said, thrusting one butt cheek at the phone camera.

Carl quickly waved his hands, dismissing the offensive body part. 

"Put that away, Stan! They look like tits!"

Encouraged by Carl, Stanley wiggled his buttocks for the camera.

When he was eventually tired, Stanley sat back down on his bed and continued on the trajectory. 

"Speaking of ass, I made a regrettable decision last night."

Carl, sensing potential juice, leans forward.

"Spill!"

Turns out, there was indeed juice, and there was indeed much to spill. 

Too much, in fact. 

"I will never ever eat mala in my life ever again," Stanley said. "Those spicy Szechuan chunks gave my asshole the burn yesterday.

Carl slowly retreated from his phone and tried to regain some colour to his face. 

"My New Year resolution in 2021 is to stop eating so much spicy food. My ass will thank me for that later," Stanley said. 

And before anyone could say anything to change the subject, Stanley quipped: "Then again, if my ass does thank me, he will be thanking me for giving it a lot of pumping action to enjoy in the last 30 years".

"Speaking of thankful," Carl the dense one cut in, "hard as it can be, I think we ought to look back and really find things to be grateful for."

"I totally agree," Stanley said without missing a beat. 

"Whenever I look back, I can almost always feel something to be thankful for. And trust me, it's always hard."

Feeling the need to moderate the conversation before it gets out of hand, I step in. 

"What are your New Year resolutions for 2021, boys?"

The boys, who don't often believe in resolutions, actually took some time to ponder on my question. 

Carl wants to get back on track and gym his life away this year to make up for all the lack of action in 2020.

"I need to fatten these biceps up," Carl the gym rabbit says, flexing his python size muscles which look way too big to look like actual human arms. 

Carl's arms have never been in the correct shape as stipulated by God.

Stanley's behind too, has never been in the correct shape as stipulated by God. 

In fact, years of his ungodly ways made sure of that, but let's not go there. 

For Stanley, his 2021 must be filled with good things, he says.

I was scared to ask what he meant by good things and where those good things were supposed to fill. 

But Stanley did conclude that he is determined to be in good health this year -- load up on vitamins, supplements so that he won't die when someone sneezes in the lift. 

Later, I posed the same question to my partner J.

For him, 2021 will be no different from 2020, 2019, 2018 and so on. 

My boyfriend of nearly 20 years has always been consistent. Every day is New Year's day if you view it with appreciation, he would say. 

Leave it to Stanley to contextualise things.

2021 will be a reawakening for the world of sorts, he says.

Just like fetuses, we will see light at the end of the sticky, moist vaginal tunnel and we will gravitate towards it.

And once we patiently wriggle out of the slimy tunnel that's 2020, we will emerge in 2021 with promises of a vaccine and the lure of a world reborn. 

Here's hoping. 

And here's wishing everyone of my beloved readers a fruitful, healthy, and promising 2021!

 

 

 

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Happy 2021!

Dear readers,

Thank you for your support in the past few years, and for dropping me messages privately to share your thoughts and stories.

I sincerely wish everyone a very healthy, meaningful and happy 2021.

With love,

Adam