There Are All Kinds Of Love

My sex bunny friend Stanley is a lot of things. 

Slutty, sex-hungry, sultry.

But a home wrecker he is not.

Until now. 

But it's debatable, according to Stanley.

"Technically, I am not a home wrecker because, one, he is gay so he has gay immunity (whatever that means). Two, he and his partner are in an open relationship so he's not breaching any form of conjugal contract (whatever that means). And three, I'm not asking him to leave his partner for me," Stanley argued eloquently, an argument so convincing that it's considered the loss for Singapore's legal community, given his acute oral skills. 

Stanley first told me and Carl our dense friend about P, someone whom he's seeing seriously. 

And serious Stanley is. 

Days after learning about his presence, Stanley wanted me to meet the love of his life. Carl the dense one would be left out for now so that P feels comfortable. And naturally, I'm on the top of Stanley's list. 

I'm not sure that's necessarily a good thing. 

Instead of gathering at Stanley's, my gay best friend had chosen neutral ground for our meeting.

Turned out, it was not just neutral ground, but also fertile ground. 

Being the trendy, pretentious type of gay Stanley was, he picked Open Farm Community at Dempsey for our Sunday brunch meeting.

A place that is famed for having tiny plots of farmland in its backyard where its owners practise a farm-to-table concept. A place where people go to see and be seen. Couples -- straight and gay -- would come dressed in their best dress-down attire, often armed with a dog to make some sort of social statement. 

At 11:30am sharp, Stanley strolled into the restaurant with P.

I can see why Stanley is head over heels.

P is a towering figure, all of 1.8m tall. 

And not just tall.

He's dark and handsome -- and suave.

P brightened the moment he saw me. 

"I have heard so much about you," P said without sounding patronising. 

"And Adam has heard of you just last week," Stanley chimed in. "And so I filled him in with quality substance about you."

P and I both looked at each other uncomfortably.

Luckily, we were saved by the Belle.

A svelte and pretty waitress came by and air-kissed P.

"The service charge here must be extremely high," Stanley said without missing a beat.

Said waitress turned to Stanley and let out a peal of hearty chuckles, opening her arms poised for a hug.

"Any friend of P's is a friend of mine," she said, then came over to me to give me equal loving treatment. 

Apparently, P is indeed very prominent and well known. 

As I glanced around the alfresco area of Open Farm Community, I noticed several patrons looking in our direction. 

Is this the price to pay for hanging out with celebrity-types, I wondered to myself as I self-consciously adjusted my hair in some last-minute grooming attempt. 

But P had no airs. He in fact makes you feel extremely comfortable -- both a strength and a weakness.

Though P was a regular there, he had made sure to not dominate the ordering, mindfully giving us space to choose our food and skilfully stepping in to guide us with what's good and what's not.

I stole a glance at Stanley who looked like he was brimming with pride and love for his thoughtful partner (can we call him that?), though I'm sure in Stanley's mind, he would insist P to be dominating -- away from the dining table, that is. 

Finally, our bottle of white wine arrived, followed by a kale salad, fish and chips, bread with seasonal butter, burger and some pasta that's all meant for sharing. 

I can see why Stanley is madly in love with P.

And I felt a mix of happiness and fear, along with hope and anxiety for Stanley.

But as my partner J had said, they are both consenting adults so instead of spending energy worrying about the future, why not embrace the moment.

Stanley is doing it right now: He would place his arm over P's shoulder, or give him a playful punch on his bicep, or lovingly caress his arm whenever he felt like it.

P seemed totally fine with the display of affection. 

But not in a voyeuristic sort of way.

You know how you can tell if two men walking on the streets are an actual couple because of their mannerisms and proximity and comfort level with each other? 

Right now, I'm getting a lot of those vibes. These two individuals -- one of whom is my gay best friend whose love life I worry about -- are obviously in that zone. They're comfortable with each other and can almost finish each other's sentences. A feat given that they'd only been together for slightly more than a fortnight. 

Over brunch, I got to know P better. 

And it's surreal because I have seen P in the limelight. Never before off screen. And boy, he is one charismatic character.

If not for P's complicated situation, I would have insisted Stanley to propose to him, get married in Bangkok and let me be the bridesmaid. 

P is everything a man can wish for (gay and straight).

For the gay man, P is of course the perfect partner -- tall, dark, handsome (I said that already), eloquent, thoughtful, good-looking with a great bod (Stanley made sure he sold that point). And he's wealthy to boot.

For the straight man, P is easily a role model. Confident, charming, unassuming. 

When P excused himself to use the restroom, Stanley immediately leaned in and said urgently "so how? what do you think?"

Truth be told, I love P.

I also love that Stanley is so happy with P. 

And that's very, very dangerous. 

For me.

I mean, if I allow myself to feel happy for the two of them who're obviously newly in love, am I also setting myself up for failure?

Double failure at that?

'Cos what would happen if I let myself be too comfortable with this love situation of theirs? Wouldn't that have double impact on me personally and as Stanley's pillar of support, when the break up eventually comes?

I know I will love having them around in my life -- as a couple. I know P makes Stanley very happy. And I know their feelings for each other are genuine. 

But the logical part of me would stop myself from being unrealistic. To tell myself to wake up! He's a passing trend! He's not here to stay in your lives!

J would sometimes point out to me that I think too much.

Once, J said to me I'm the type of person who looks at the end result so much that I fail to enjoy the process.

It's like you enter a movie theatre but sit only on the edge of the seat knowing that the movie is going to last for 2 hours, so why get so comfortable when you know it's a short-lived experience he once said. 

After brunch that day, I thought about these and slowly processed the emotions.

I realise I had put myself in the centre of it. Not Stanley's interest, or in this case, his love interest. 

Just because I felt uneasy, insecure, and worried for their future doesn't mean Stanley didn't. 

Knowing him, Stanley must have spent a lot of time going through these permutations, emotions, and uncertainty. 

And that was when it hit me.

If I could feel this way as an outsider, how much worse must it be for Stanley?

And just like that, I decided to toss my feelings (and judgements) out the window, and be that gay best friend Stanley needs me to be.

The supportive type. The non-judgemental type. The type who would disagree vehemently with him but would still fiercely stand by him for his decisions. 

And so, I decided to take a stand.

And my stand is right behind Stanley. 

So that if he needs some prodding, I'm there to nudge him forward. 

And so that if he falls, he has me to cushion the crash. 

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

Cruising Along

It's done and dusted.

The adrenaline subsided.

The sweat all dried up.

2024 Olympics came to a close with a dramatic finish, the climax being Tom Cruise's epic diving stunt.

Stanley, a fan of dramatic finishes, climaxes and cruising, was particularly chatty this evening. 

"I have so many questions," he says, reaching for his fifth Mao Shan Wang seed.

Carl the dense one also has many questions, but that's by default. God wasn't exactly generous with our gym rabbit friend when it came to intellect. 

But when it came to Stanley our sex bunny friend, God wasn't exactly generous when it came to giving him modesty. 

"Mmm, this is so bitter, it's so good!" Carl beamed as he helped himself to a particularly creamy seed.

"Sounds like the spunk I once tasted before many years ago," Stanley segued naturally, without missing a beat. "The boy was really cute. But his spunk was extremely bitter," he added. "I wonder what he ate to have such bitter spunk."

Carl didn't know what the boy ate, but he sure knows at this moment, there's no eating to be done.

All dinner topics with Stanley revolved around sex and you can't even fault him for going off topic. Carl was talking about bitter seeds. And so was Stanley.

But I digress.

Carl, who loves durian more than any fruit in the whole wide world, started tearing and begged Stanley to not spoil his moment. 

The one thing about Carl is that he's no prude. But he, for some reason, cannot talk about sex especially when eating. You know how when everyone is enjoying a nice, warm, chocolate lava cake and someone at the table with a big mouth would say stupid things like "oh this looks like diarrhoea" and at least one other diner would physically gag? That big mouth would be Stanley, and the gagger, Carl.

Again, I digress. 

Stanley, now licking his fingers, reached for his glass of Pinot Noir to clear his throat.

We know what you're thinking. Durian and alcohol will kill you according to myths but Stanley has done extensive research over the years with wine and durian pairing that he would have died five years ago if this had been a lethal combo.

"My first question is," Stanley began, "how do these athletes even get off?"

Carl set down his creamy durian fruit and took a few deep breaths, no doubt trying to keep his favourite fruit down while mentally blocking all white noise from his head to keep calm and carry on.

"You do know that Grindr is geo-blocked at the Games Village right," Stanley said, firming up the evening's discussion. 

"That must be torture," Stanley shook his head.

"Imagine, you have a village full of hot bods, and all the hormones worked up during training -- and you can't use Grindr," Stanley said, his eyes reflecting a mix of emotions namely anger and sadness.

"But that doesn't mean they can't -- and don't -- have sex," Carl pointed out. 

We both looked at our dense friend, impressed that he has found the resilience to join us in sex talk during dinner, and also that he was on one of those rare moments when he isn't off topic.

"Five points to Gryffindor," Stanley nodded at Carl, who immediately cocked his head sideways, his eyes reflecting one main emotion: Confusion. 

While Carl had zero Harry Porter reference, he had made a point based on institutional knowledge.

That in the good ol' days before Grindr, people hooked up by cruising.

That topic, surprisingly, didn't delight Stanley further.

"It's interesting you surfaced this point, Carl, but this raises further questions," Stanley said. Anyone tuning in to our conversation at this moment would probably think we're in a board meeting, talking about something extremely important and intellectual. 

"But the younger generation wouldn't know how to cruise," Stanley said, further sharpening our evening's discussion. 

Carl was confused, so he reached for his Pinor Noir to both drown his sorrows and numb himself. 

Stanley though, had a point.

Many of these gay youngsters -- athletes or not -- grew up in this era where everything is available to them by tapping their phones: Food delivery, shopping for a new pair of socks, hookups.

These gay youngsters will be very handicapped without Grindr, Stanley said shaking his head. "They don't even know how to use the telephone these days -- it's all just text, text, text, and when they speak on the phone, they get all uncomfortable."

Carl nodded without expression. 

Stanley, who has done enough market research and legwork to conduct a cruising masterclass, shook his head.

But Stanley may have a point.

The art of cruising isn't something everyone can grasp.

Carl simply cannot.

Already, the poor man has trouble reciting the alphabet without singing it, cannot name all 10 ASEAN countries, nor spell "scissors" without the help of spellcheck. To get him to interpret eye signals and read into body language would overwhelm him and break down his system.

Carl once tried and was scarred for life. He was in Safra swimming pool and a very lean man kept starring at Carl, trying to get his attention. Our dense friend responded by cutting to the chase -- no need for small talk... he took off his towel the way a confident gambler would show hand at the casino table.

Turns out, the lean man was Carl's primary school friend who was once very fat and cos he lost weight, Carl couldn't recognise him. And that friend is straight as an arrow. 

Since then, Carl swore off cruising. 

Stanley looked at Carl, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and expressed motherly sadness. 

"Come to think of it," I said. "Is cruising still a thing?"

In this day and age, all our old gay ways have changed.

People our age are stuck in the middle -- we were schooled by the ways of our gay forefathers, learning to cruise and thrive. But as we grew up and embraced technology, we jumped on the bandwagon and went with it.

But our gay sons. They will never know how to fish the manual way.

Just like how retail shops are struggling to survive, physical cruising may soon become a dying art. 

Carl was getting more confused by the minute, unable to connect the dots from Olympics to cruising to fishing.

He gave up trying and licked off the dry durian stains off his fingers.

Stanley refuses to buy this argument. 

There's always a time and place for history, and we cannot forsake tradition," Stanley said.

By then, Carl was done self-grooming. From the corner of my eye, I saw him sniff his fingers and smile to himself with satisfaction.

Right that moment, I was hit with a random epiphany.

My future meals with this motley group will always be filled with vulgar topics and questionable hygiene but I will still choose these two for many, many meals to come. 

And I'll be glad to cruise along with these two for a very long time.

 

 

 

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

The Big Bad Year

I may be writing this in 2024, but this piece dates back to two years ago.

To say that 2022 was a year of huge change for the boys and me is the greatest understatement of the year.

No. That year was monumental. 

For Carl the dense one, it was the year he caught, discovered and cured STD.

For me, it was the year when I realised I could end up bankrupt if I continued paying sky-high mortgage rates if I didn't cut my losses and sold my home, and so I did.

For Stanley, it was a year of family drama.

In late-October 2022, his mum the formidable Mrs Monica Ong lost her footing while going down the stairs at her three-storey home.

"Luckily, she was almost on the ground floor when she tripped," Stanley reported to us hours later after checking her into the hospital just to be sure. "So she only fell and hurt her hip 'cos it was the last two steps."

We gathered for late-night supper at Stanley's home that very night.

Exhausted from an entire day at the hospital, our sex bunny friend needed food, comfort and company so Carl and I were activated to his Queens Close home.

"We need a holy floral shower ritual," Stanley said as he blew into his chopstick-ful of Rameyon. 

Carl the dense one looked to me for guidance. 

With Stanley, Carl is never sure what he's driving at. Everything Stanley talks about has the potential to turn sexual or vulgar or both. 

"This year is a bad year for us, really," Stanley said, shaking his head. "We need a reset."

Carl, satisfied that his supper wasn't about to be ruined with anything sexual nor vulgar, nodded and began his own ritual of making his Rameyon disappear. 

"I'll have to be back at the hospital again tomorrow morning," Stanley said. "The cute Filipino male nurse gets off during that time -- and that also means I will get off at that time too."

Carl choked on his Kimchi soup on cue, sputtering half-chewed Rameyon into the air.

Leave it to Stanley to, in spite of his family drama, look at things from the brighter side. Sweet young things, being the key things he's looking at, that is. 

"I'm serious," Stanley said. "Is it me or are the male nurses getting hunkier and hunkier these days?"

For the next one week, Stanley religiously visited Mrs Ong at the hospital.

His mum was very impressed with the commitment, especially since Stanley's visiting hours mirrored the hardworking nurses' shifts. 

Carl later told me he was worried about Stanley.

"The last time I was at a medical facility, it was to get rid of STD. I'm scared that Stanley is going to catch STD at a medical facility." 

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

Encounters of the Third Kind

Stanley needed to see me urgently the other day.

And since it was my Work From Home day, I shrugged and said yes.

At exactly 11.09am, Stanley the sex bunny showed up at my front door with a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

"I like that your priority is drinks over food."

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang and at my doorstep was Carl the dense one. His python sized biceps were stretching his tee shirt sleeves to the limit.

"Food is here!" Carl beamed. 

I set the table and portioned out the Hokkien Mee and transferred the Rojak on a proper serving plate.

As we took our seats, Stanley the size queen pointed out the obvious. 

"Man, your place is tiny, Adam. When is your lease up? I can't wait for you to buy your HDB flat. This is so suffocating!"

Carl the gym rabbit flexed his arms for no reason.

At the halfway mark of our Thursday lunch, Stanley said: "So."

On cue, we looked up and waited for the gossip of the day that brought us to my suffocating apartment.

"Remember my silly semen retention phase?" Stanley asked.

Carl, who was still recovering from PTSD -- post traumatic semen disorder -- from our conversation not too long ago, turned pale. 

He sat down his glass and backed off from the food, just in case.

"I'm seeing someone," he began, then took a sip of Pinot Grigio and swallowed. 

Stanley has the gravitas of a brilliant motivational speaker who could command attention of his audience even as he took a sip of wine. 

Carl the gym rabbit flexed his arms again while waiting.

"I didn't say this earlier 'cos I didn't think it was serious," Stanley said. 

Carl's biceps swelled by the minute with excitement.

"Thing is," Stanley hemmed and hawed.

Carl's muscles looked like they could burst any minute with the suspense. 

"And I don't want any judgement from you boys," Stanley continued.

Carl's face was red with all the flexing and waiting.

"He's actually attached but he and I are making things work."

Carl's biceps deflated on impact.

"Stan... that's..." Carl paused, searching for words. With the dense one, we would never know if his silence was because his mind was wandering off or because it was deliberate silence.

I was the one who broke it.

"Okay, tell us more Stan."

Stanley had been dating for a while now.

In fact, Stanley had been dating his whole life.

The 45 year old had never once settled for a proper relationship. Lots of fuck buddies, yes. Lots of One Night Stands, yes. Flings, yes. Boyfriends? No.

Carl was still in a stupor, staring at my painting.

"Did you buy this?" Carl asked, his pigeon-like attention span spiralling out of control.

For the past five months, Stanley had been going out with, let's just call him P. 

P is a relatively high profile individual in the gay scene. 

And by that, I mean P is very well known in the community.

He is, after all, a celebrity of sorts.

That got Carl's attention.

"Who is he!" he demanded. 

"Okay. Promise not to share this anywhere else," Stanley said, and proceeded to provide us with his full name.

Carl's jaw dropped. 

Stanley, who knows Carl since we sweet young things 20 years ago, challenged Carl.

"Do you know who he is?"

The dense one pouted and shook his head, his biceps shrinking further.

But I of course know of him and I was surprised that Stanley would dabble in a third-party relationship with someone so high profile.

"I'm not exactly a third party," he corrected. "Technically, they're in an open and sexless relationship."

That afternoon, Stanley spilled the beans after he spilled the seeds and like all good old fashioned Kiss and Tell sessions, spared no details about how they met and, in his words, "fell in love".

Carl shook his head. "You're playing with fire, Stan."

"I know. And it's HOT. He's hot. You guys may have seen his photos but his actual bod... it's to die for," Stanley said like he was a teen girl in puppy love.

As his gay best friend, I am supportive. I mean, Stanley can say he wants to marry a sofa for all I care. The role of gay best friend is to stand by him no matter what.

Even if he's going to be in a complicated love triangle.

"I'm not in a throuple, so that's less complex," Stanley offered.

But -- and I have many buts -- how is this relationship going to even work?

I mean, first of all, is what Stanley and P's situation even called a relationship?

Stanley warned me against falling into the label trap.

We're just two people who're not supposed to be in love but are in love, he said.

Carl the dense one nodded slowly though I have no idea if he was nodding because the script called for it or if he truly agreed with Stanley.

"This side table -- is it from Commune?" Carl asked. 

As the boys wrapped up lunch and left at around 4pm that day, it got me thinking.

What are my limits as a gay best friend if my gay best friend is doing something that most people might frown upon? 

And most importantly... where is this relationship heading?

It's surely headed for doomsville. There's no way -- and P made it very clear -- that P is leaving his partner for Stanley.

So what's in it for him, really, I wondered. 

Stanley's news had given me more anxiety than excitement.

I shared this with my partner J, who, to my utter surprise, didn't say anything negative.

In fact, my partner of more than 20 years was calm and collected.

"Don't judge the love they both have now," he said.

"Though they're not saying it right now, I'm very sure Stan and P know at the end of the day that this relationship won't last forever. So my take is, they should both just enjoy each other, and love fearlessly," J said.

"At the end of the day, they know they may have to split up one day. So while they're at it, they might as well go all out and love each other fiercely, so that when it's time for them to part ways, they'd each have loved the other party fully."

I shared with Stanley J's thoughts, and he had no repartee nor anything witty to say.

That's when I know how serious Stanley was, with P.  

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

Superstition, Super Scary

It's official. 

Doors will open tomorrow, Aug 4, I announced. 

Sex bunny friend Stanley's eyes lit up. Any doors that open is a great window of opportunity for him to seize, grab, and fondle.

"Are we talking about the opening of a new gay club?" Stanley asks hopefully, making beatboxing noises.

"Or is it a new gym?" Carl the dense one, who's also a gym rabbit, chimes in, bouncing his python-sized biceps to Stanley's beat.

No, and no, I said, topping their wine glasses with more Pinot Grigio. The boys were at my home this evening where we had Thai food takeaway followed by Netflix.

"The Gates of Hell will open," I said with a dramatic hiss.

Carl urgently wiped off the half-chewed grilled pork pieces that landed on his face. 

Stanley started flailing his arms and shaking his head, letting out a shrill scream that sounded like a 5-year-old girl who's being dragged by her feet by something under the bed.

Carl, his face still not completely clean from my grilled pork spew, joined in the fun and let out a series of high-pitched falsetto laughter reserved for Muslim cemeteries. 

"I've always wished my home were filled with laughter, and dear God, I should have been more specific," I deadpanned, staring at my two friends, one of whom acting like a complete Pondan while the other channelling Pontianak. 

The topic of Hungry Ghost is a big deal in the Lee family. At least when we were young.

Mrs Lee would often take the annual opportunity to instill unnecessary fear in her children.

We were told creepy tales of sorts. Every year, those tales grew scarier and scarier until we reached puberty and realised how ridiculous they were. 

Still, some of my siblings -- actually, only our second sis S-- grew up fearing all things ghostly. 

My first memory of the Hungry Ghost Month was when I was around 3. My sis would have been 6 and Barry, 1. Oldest sis was 10 and was thus more sensible than us kiddos.

It felt like a week-long party of sorts.

Back then, we lived along a row of shophouses. Granny and some of our aunties and uncles lived a few doors down from our home. 

By evening, after dinner, the adult women would gather at Granny's front porch doing what seemed like an art-and-craft project: Folding colourful pieces of origami and chatting away.

I was easily amused by them. One of my aunts would stack a neat pile of those colourful papers and with deft dexterity, twist it with her fingers, and just like magic, the pile of papers would fan out evenly. 

In the following days, Granny's home would be filled with gigantic bags of paper boats made up of all sorts of colour: Purple, orange, and white-and-gold. Those towering bags made me feel like it was Christmas. I imagined this is how Santa Claus' home looked like.

I soon found out the bags contained gifts meant not for children nor human. And the boats were actually supposed to be ingots, meant to bribe or enrich members of the Afterlife.

"Do not kick the bags. Do not cross over them -- or you will be sick!" Mrs Lee said to us with a mix of motherly love and threat. 

I had no idea what Mrs Lee was so concerned about, but if children were taught to fear, we feared. So every year, I would tread carefully around those big bags of boats wondering to myself just how mysteriously dangerous they were.

As we grew older, we were allowed to see what happened to those Santa Claus bags as I had known them to be.

They were to be burned. 

Our mum would let us tag along to the street opposite our house. All our neighbours would be there too, doing exactly the same thing: Laying out food and snacks and candles. It felt like an evening outdoor party and my siblings and I would run around with our cousins and neighbours' kids like we were celebrating something joyous.

Leave it to Mrs Lee the Grinch to take that joy out of us.

"Shh! Keep it down. The ghosts are eating," she said to us, pointing to the paper plates of food lining the streets. 

Elder sis, who understood more things than Barry and I, started to tear in fear.

Barry began to cry too, realising that the food weren't actually meant for him to eat.

When we were old enough to go to school, Mrs Lee would warn us to hurry back before sunset because by nightfall, the ghosts would wander around and eat children.

"This mum of yours. Is she like a step mum?" Stanley had to check, amused by Mrs Lee's twisted way of bringing up her children. 

"Is that why you turned out so damaged, Adam?"

Carl unleashed his ghastly laughter on cue, no doubt, giving the entire Pasir Panjang goosebumps. 

Of course, as we grew up, we realised just how silly those scary tales were.

Barry and I soon grew out of this but not Mrs Lee's secondborn.

When we were kids, sis would never want to sleep alone in the dark.

She would close her eyes whenever we gathered in the living room to watch one of those Hong Kong films about bouncing zombies, on weekend nights. 

She would bother to make big detours just to avoid Hungry Ghost offerings, or even wakes. And we're talking about the present.

Stanley shook his head pitifully on hearing this. 

Carl took a deep breath like he was about to laugh again, and sneezed. 

Sometimes, I would say to our Sister that it's ok to have ghosts around us.

"Shh! Don't say this out loud. They can hear you!" 

Sometimes, my sis, who has a love-hate relationship with our mum, opens her mouth and Mrs Lee would come out. 

Sis has grown up to be extremely fearful of ghosts and eventually a firm believer of superstition. 

Her beautiful River Valley home is an example of her beliefs.

The first thing you feel about her home is that it's a showroom -- nicely decorated, furniture and accessories curated with precision.

In one corner is some jade qilin (mystical Chinese creature) that's supposed to ward off evil. Then there are crystal pieces in another area the house (I can't remember what they're meant for). And a big bowl filled with copper coins on some other antique-looking table. Even plants and paintings are strategically placed to enhance her career, wealth, well-being. 

I was told she paid a handsome amount to her Fengshui master.

Barry and I on the other hand, are the complete opposites. 

We no longer fear Hungry Ghost month.

Barry only fears being hungry.

We are both perfectly okay to walk through wakes at void decks. Perfectly okay to watch funeral processions if they happen to pass by us. And we love watching horror shows.

As we grew older, Sis would have to tap on our bravery especially in one of her old jobs where she had to fly around the region, staying in sometimes "creepy" hotels as she would say.

This would lead her to either face-time us or send us messages in the siblings group chat at night, where we had to distract her with ridiculous things.

This is how my sis had grown to love Stanley whose life story is meant to entertain. 

But this Hungry Ghost Month got me thinking recently.

As adults, we are free to redesign our lives and change the narratives told to us as kids.

Being the ever-logical one, I would always that, yes, there may be ghosts or aliens among us. Just because we don't see them doesn't mean that they don't exist. 

But just because they exist on our plane doesn't mean they will always want to harm us.

Humans can be scarier than ghosts, I would argue.

Elder sis would hear none of it. 

And so every time I find myself walking in dark alleys, I tell myself this, thinking that this would make Adam a big, brave boy.

Stanley cut in.

Whenever I walk in dark alleys, I keep hoping something happens to me and I hope that the someone would know Stanley is a big -- and I mean big -- brave boy. 

Carl let out his fiendish laughter for the third time that night. 

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