Dying Thoughts

Not too long ago, my partner J's aunt was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer.

The doctor told her then, she only had months left.

And so for her remaining days, Aunty Nora decided to live life to the fullest.

She drew up her will, met friends and loved ones regularly, diligently watched lots of K-dramas, and ate many a hearty meal.

J, ever the sweet boy, would take Aunty Nora out once a week for a good meal with his parents.

Peranakan food, Coca steamboat (senior citizens got discount lah, J says), and international hotel buffets and high teas, you name it.  

Last Tuesday, Aunty Nora died at age 73.

I received J's message while I was on my way for a meeting.

Though I had known Aunty Nora for the last 18 years I was with J, I didn't feel overwhelmed with sadness.

One, she had outlived her doctor's prognosis by slightly more than a year.

Two, she had had a full life after all, having been a Tai Tai, without having to worry about money and always indulging in the finer things in life.

And three, in Aunty Nora's final days, she was so frail and in so much pain that she really wanted to just leave this world.

It was a sad day for J and his family.

That night, I fulfilled my duties as the daughter-in-law to the Tans.

Stanley my sex bunny friend would say that there are many other more interesting roles I can play to fulfill my duties as the Tans' daughter-in-law, but let's not go there.

That night, after Aunty Nora's immediate family ironed out the dreadful admin and logistics work, her body was brought back to her Jalan Chengam home.

Aunty Nora's wake photo was stately.

She had her puffy hair -- in a brilliant sheen of white -- nicely coiffed, and was in an elegant black cheongsam with pink and purple floral patterns.

In her coffin, she looked equally dignified, dressed in that very cheongsam which she had meant to wear in her final journey.

Her clasped hand held a rosary which was used frequently in her living days.

For the next few nights, her Jalan Chengam home was filled with collective chatter from tables of friends and family.

It was in a way a familiar sight given that when she was alive, Aunty Nora would hold such rowdy parties too.


J and I took a back seat from wake duties and just made sure guests are well fed with peanuts, and pipping hot sayur lodeh, cooked by one of his cousins.

During the wake, I learnt that Aunty Nora had been involved in her own funeral planning -- from choosing her funeral mass hymn to making sure she gets her favourite priest to say mass for her.


Great planning on her part.

But it was very morbid.

Days after her funeral, I got to thinking of my own mortality.

And J and I both sat down to talk about our longevity on this planet.

It was an important discussion. We know we will not live forever and there's no way we will escape death.

While J's parents have made afterlife plans (they all bought niche units at their parish churches), it was J's own plans I wanted to know.

My practical partner had opted for sea burial (which is an option for Catholics, I learnt. After cremation, J's ashes will be filled in an urn which will be brought to sea by a priest, who will dump the urn).

I've also studiously made notes about J's funeral hymns.

"What the heck makes you think you'll outlive J," Stanley demanded to know when I told him this over coffee the other day.

"J is healthier and holier than thou," Stanley said, adding that "don't forget you were a young slut before you met J so God knows what sort of underlying STD you have which might just emerge and kill you some day."

Which also got me thinking.

It's true what Stanley said (the slut part and also my naive thought that I would outlive J).

In fact, I want to outlive J.

It pains me to imagine him hovering over my coffin and staring down at me, feeling like his whole world has crumbled.

Me on the other hand, knowing what sort of a drama queen I am, will survive. After all, I'll be theatrical enough to ensure I express my sorrows appropriately.

All that morbid talk got Stanley himself thinking.

"Damn. I'm single and I have nobody to weep big fat salty tears for me," he said, already mourning his future death.

"But I'm making good progress," my sex bunny friend added wistfully.

"I've been diligently sleeping around so that eventually when I'm dead, I can truly live up to the title, the laid Stanley Ong which will be inscribed on my tombstone."




In loving memory of Aunty Nora, who, when the going got tough for her and had trouble eating when she was ill, told me she enjoyed the Myanmar cashew nuts I had been buying for her. And thank you for your years of acceptance, party invites and generous treats and angpaos during Chinese New Year.

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

One Ring to Rule Them All

"It's time to get a ring," Stanley said in the group chat the other day.

To his credit, Carl the dense one ventured to clarify what exactly it is, that our sex bunny friend meant -- because with Stanley, really, you never know.

"What type of ring?"

"The type that is rock hard, perfectly shaped and fits just nicely," Stanley replied, refusing to let the bait go to waste.

To all of our relief, Stanley had indeed described an actual ring -- for the finger -- though why he wanted one was beyond us.

Then again, with Stanley, you never know.

And whatever -- and whomever -- Stanley wants, Stanley gets.

And so for the next few days, our group chat was filled with pictures of rings provided by Stanley for our approval and opinion -- which is a refreshing change for once.

After 15 minutes of replying with thumbs-up icons for every picture, Carl the dense one's attention span fizzled off like a can of Coke that's left in the open for too long and soon, the group chat became a monologue.

"The reason I want a ring is sort of like a birthday gift to myself," Stanley wrote without anyone asking.

"And I'm drawn to my birthstone -- Peridot -- in case you ask (which we weren't)".

"Also, as Adam would know, I love green (yes, I do know and Carl the dense one doesn't)".

"But a peridot ring is not exactly glam so I'm also looking at embellishing it with diamonds."

By then, Stanley was on his own because I didn't have his enthusiasm in exploring family jewels, and Carl the dense one couldn't catch up anymore.

Finally, last Friday afternoon, Stanley decided to make a bold move.

He has concluded that there are not enough men's rings that feature peridot and diamonds and most of them are very ugly.

And so, he will have a custom-made ring for himself.

It was something that calls for a gathering of sorts so we found ourselves at a shop in Tiong Bahru that specialises in creating jewellery for people with too much money to spare.

Two slim and pretty-looking girls attended to us in the spacious showroom, one of them focusing solely on Stanley's needs.

And to our surprise, the girl could satisfy our sex bunny's needs there and then.

"You know, I usually like it big, but for rings, I don't want them to be too bulky," Stanley was telling Jewel Girl.

"And I've seen a lot of peridot rings online -- they all look like one solid rock, which in another context, is a good thing for me," Stanley carried on loading too much info on Jewel Girl.

"Some of those rings look like they're worn by holy men -- the type which if you rub, a genie might come out," Stanley continued.

Knowing Stanley, I was very afraid for the girl for what might follow.

"For me, if I rub it, it shouldn't be a genie that comes out if you know what I mean," Stanley said as expected.

Jewel Girl broke into a hearty giggle, her white mask vibrating with her chortle.

I sighed with relief, happy that Stanley hadn't rubbed Jewel Girl the wrong way. 

"I'll make you something that you'll like -- don't you worry," Jewel Girl said and with that, she brought out her shop's peridots for Stanley to see.

"I suggest using these smaller peridots -- along with diamonds of the same size," she said and began to arrange the gemstones with a tweezer.

To my left, I saw Carl yawning behind his mask, fighting the urge to doze off.

Jewel Girl then did a rough sketch for Stanley, explaining how she would place the gemstones that would both meet Stanley's brief and expectations.

"You have nice slender fingers, so a large stone won't work well. Instead, I'm using these smaller gems to shape the centre piece. These diamonds will go here to compliment the peridots."

Stanley's eyes lit up on seeing the sketch and the stones that were placed on a transparent sheet for his visualisation.

"I LOVE IT," Stanley said.

"It'll be set on white gold and what I'll do is, I'll combine two small rings to support the centre piece so that it looks classy and exquisite -- which is my impression of you," Jewel Girl said, her eyes squinting with delight.

Next, Jewel Girl held up a calculator and punched in many digits before showing the final figure to Stanley.

Carl's eyes lit up on seeing the amount.

"It's a good price that I'm willing to pay," Stanley said.

It would take two months for Jewel Girl to make the ring but Stanley left the shop that afternoon a happy man.

Carl was still dazed by how fast Stanley went from talking about getting a ring to actually deciding on a customised ring in a matter of days, though mainly, I suspect Carl couldn't t get over the amount.

"$3,200 is just a fraction of our salary," said Stanley, Crazy Rich Asian.

"Besides, I would love to have my family jewels to be as personal as possible," said Stanley, Crazy Asian.

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

That Can Be Arranged

Last week, Stanley could stand it no more.

"I'm really sick of working from home and staying at home and trudging around home in my designer underwear," our sex bunny friend said.

"And though we do meet, we're always at each other's homes."

"I never imagine I would one day say this, but boys it's about time I put on some clothes and got out for some sun," he said.

And so, we decided to deck out from head to toe in our Tuesday best, get out of the house and have lunch at Dempsey.

I chose a white button down, jeans and brown loafers.

Stanley turned up in a light green tee paired with a navy blue blazer, brown pants, shoes, no socks.

Carl the dense one -- who always never gets the memo -- came in a pair of black polo tee, a pair of beige bermudas and bloody sandals.

Stanley had insisted we ate lunch at Candlenut, a posh (but expensive) Peranakan restaurant after hearing rave reviews from some of his friends who had gone there recently.

"Explain to me why you have no self respect," Stanley said by way of greeting Carl, eyeing our gym rabbit friend from head to toe.

"Which part of 'come in your best slutty clothes' do you find hard to understand?"

Carl, who really usually doesn't understand, shifted uncomfortably and cringed at the pre-lunch image conjured by the words come, slutty and hard in the same sentence.

Inside the restaurant, we found a relatively large table to accommodate our over-ordering ways.

As we settled down and took off our masks, Stanley sighed with relief, happy to be surrounded by people.

"What have you boys been up to," asked Stanley, his eyes darting around speedily, checking out all the masked men in the room.

"Is it me or do men in masks look sexy," he asked the table.

"I mean, the fact that half their faces are covered up ramps up the sex appeal -- you'll have to imagine what's underneath that piece of cloth, much in the way you'd visualise how that person's man bits look like under that pair of jeans," Stanley continued, using his eyes to point at a slim and trim guest with a mop of curly hair, who's strolling in with his elderly grandma.

"But yes, tell me, what have you boys been busy with?"

Carl, who at that moment was indeed busy, continued tapping into his phone furiously.

"I'm trying to send an email to show that I'm working," our dense friend said. "I didn't tell my boss that I'd be venturing out for early lunch."

"Oh, I'm on leave," Stanley replied. "Just that HR and my boss both aren't aware of it."

Soon, our tasting platters were laid on the table -- mini kueh pietee, mantou with crab and wing bean salad -- and we got to work, making those exquisite morsels disappear.

"I've been busy," Stanley began as he swallowed the last of his wing bean salad, "watching Netflix. And you guys MUST watch Indian Matchmaking!"

"I've heard of it," I say, having seen the series pop up in my Netflix account. I was also constantly reminded by my sis (who insists she's a bachelorette and not a spinster, and who doesn't need to be matchmade) to watch the show so that she can have an intellectual discussion with me on the merits of an arranged marriage.

Carl, who's dense and slow to all types of development apart from growing his muscles, nodded sagely.

"You know what we talking about meh?" Stanley challenged.

Carl pouted, shook his head and proceeded to eat his fillings, which, at this point of the lunch, was minced pork, prawn and water chestnut from ngor hiang. 

What Stanley found intriguing about Indian Matchmaking -- apart from the handful of cute Indian eye candies -- is a peek into society's views on various issues: The cultural differences, the caste system, discrimination against certain 'types' of people, and of course, insights into human behaviour among families and how values are passed down from parents to children.

Stanley's strength is obviously in dissecting societal issues and breaking down barriers of human interaction.

Also making full use of his strength in dissecting and breaking down is Carl, who is now making himself useful by de-shelling our next dish, sambal prawns, for us.

"I don't know if I can fall in love with someone that's arranged for me," Carl said finally, licking his fingers clean of the piquant sambal sauce from his fingers.

Indeed, it was food for thought.

In this part of the world, we're big on love marriages.

In India (and perhaps some parts of China), they're big on arranged marriages.

"And in this spot of the restaurant, we're big on gay marriages," Stanley said a tad too loudly, which could have been his goal since I caught him smiling at the trim curly-haired boy three tables away.

"At the end of the day," Stanley said, refocusing his attention on us after a failed hook-up attempt, "it's about how we make marriages work. If you can't find matches, there's no shame in getting help. And if you're matched, you'll have to make your love work -- romance is unfortunately not a fairy tale."

And then, Stanley perked up.

"But sometimes there can be plot twists and miracles can happen," he said, hurriedly putting on his mask.

"Curly boy is smiling back at me... and he's walking to the toilet."

"I'll be back -- or maybe not," Stanley said sultrily and scurried off to find his love.

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

The Local Celeb Sex Drama

"Unless you've been living under a rock," Stanley said just as we sat on the high stools in the alfresco section of Wine Connection at VivoCity, "you would know what's been intensely trending this week".

"And I, Stanley Ong, do not live under a rock," he said, further adjusting his buttocks on the stool to get just the perfect fit.

"I have done many, many things under a rock -- and if you so insist, I'll tell you about the sexcapade during an outdoor adventure camp," Stanley carried on without being prompted.

"And trust me -- it involved a lot stabbing rocks and very, very little apparel," our sex bunny friend said, dribbling one eyebrow.

"Hi, please be reminded to keep your masks on until your food arrives," says a cheery voice who had no idea just how timely her presence there and then had saved the day.

Carl the dense one had by then looked nauseated, likely because he was trying very hard to un-picture the mental image of "stabbing rocks".

"Where was I?" asked Stanley, who has a tendency to get lost.

"Stabbing rocks," I supplied.

Carl coughed.

"Ah, yes. I was talking about this sensational fella and his sex drama," Stanley said.

Carl, who also has a tendency to get lost, was rightfully confused.

While our gym rabbit friend sits quietly facing Sentosa to ponder on life, Stanley is keen to discuss this topic as if it were an A Level literature paper that we are all sitting for the next day.

The drama involves a local celebrity who had recently apologised over a conversation he had with a 15-year-old boy, describing his exchange with the words "inappropriate, questionable and problematic".


"Let me tell you the long and short of it," Stanley said, picking his words carefully to suit the ocassion.

"I'll give you a blow by blow account in chronological order, from top to bottom," he continued on a roll.


Stanley spent the next few minutes giving us a summary of the allegations: Of how the celeb could have made use of his influence to entice boys for sex, to paid sex, to accusations of grooming boys for underage sex.

"So, got sex or no sex in the end?" Carl asked, tilting his head to the side looking like he got lost in the plot somewhere.

"That's not the point! The point is... this is serious sexual grooming!" Stanley shrieked.

Carl had by then looked like a lost cause, his eyebrows so buried he looked like he was deciphering the Da Vinci Code.

"But I take sexual grooming seriously," he said finally. "It's basic etiquette... trimming hair down there and make sure my boy parts are clean."

We gave up engaging Carl who was too off tangent for us to rescue.

"There's so much to talk about, so much to comment on," Stanley says, rubbing his hands in glee as he sits on his high stool.

Carl looked bored by then and began memorising the digital menu.

After our bottle of The Very Sexy Shiraz arrived, Stanley went forth to take the discussion further.


While it's definitely wrong to engage in underage sex -- groomed or paid or even consensual -- it's also none of our business.

Except in this case, the story unfolds on the backdrop of show business, so it sort of becomes everyone's business.

Everyone who considers himself or herself a local celeb or, what's the term -- Influencer -- has something to say about this incident.

And they have said it.

For the next few days since the local celeb's saga broke out, there were so many comments by them -- some were fair. Some were dark. Some were catty. Some were bitchy.

"And some quite touching and moving," Stanley added aptly. 

But after a while, the conversation goes all over the place because everyone and their grandmother had something to say and a place where they could freely say it.

And it becomes a bit toxic to follow the comments because it's tiresome.

"It's also quite scary how things can really go downhill for some people. The last I read, the fella is sort of already a lost cause -- his work is put on hold and his reputation gone."


"But guys," Carl said after a while. "Really. In the end, got sex or no sex?"

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

Curry Favour

I have always loved curry and consider it something that's very close to my heart.

When I had my first sip of red wine at the ripe old age of nine -- right after Christmas Eve midnight mass -- it was with curry and bread.

Since then, I've always regarded red wine, curry and bread as comfort food.

And last week, I decided to whip up comfort food for the boys Stanley and Carl.

"Any food that's close to the heart is dangerous," reasoned Stanley. "It often leads to death in the form of clogged arteries," my fey friend said, licking his fingers and reaching for another piece of toasted French loaf which he promptly dipped into his bowl of curry.


That night, I asked the boys over for supper mainly because I hate wearing masks outside, but partly also because I was eager to try out a new curry recipe.

It was the recipe of my partner J's mum.

The family's prized recipe was imparted to me about a month ago, during a family dinner.

I was standing around J's kitchen where his mum was stir-frying the nonya dry curry, when she offered to teach me.

It was a tedious dish that involved throwing in candlenuts, shallots, garlic and lots and lots of pounding, as well as stir-frying of chili and curry powder.

Stanley my sex bunny friend was particularly looking forward to the dish.

Anything that involves lots and lots of pounding was always promising to Stanley.

"I can help you stir you know," Stanley said that evening as he hovered over my shoulder.

"I'm surprisingly good at one-hand action even if it means stir frying," he said.

Not wanting to be left out, Carl the gym rabbit flexed his python sized biceps and made guttral noises in the hope that his body of work can also be considered for the stir-frying job.

After some two hours, I was finally ready.

My first attempt at recreating J's mum's curry -- which was in fact a recipe passed down by J's grandmother -- was rather successful.

I followed her instructions to a tee (which meant pre-deep frying the chicken drumsticks before cooking them in the thick curry gravy).

"Adam, this is good and while I won't say this is better than sex, I dare say your curry is as good as sex," Stanley remarked, and proceeded to fit a large drumstick into his mouth to make his point.


Carl looked away like a modest nun but nodded eagerly and stuffed a curried potato in his mouth.

It was a hearty sight, seeing Stanley and Carl stuffing their faces over my near-perfect curry that was meaningful because it is a dish that's passed down from generation to generation.

In a way, I felt like a legit daughter-in-law who's been endorsed by the matron of the Peranakan household.

Also, I enjoy hosting.

Feeding friends has since become an endearing habit formed after getting my own place years ago.


"When my own place is ready," Stanley said in between chewing, "I'll also form a habit to have lots of people over for feeding," he added, making inverted comma signs with his fingers at the word feeding.


It took the boys 1/4 the time I had taken to cook the curry, to polish off their plates.

"I am so full from dinner that I think my stomach would explode and my intestines would spill out," said Stanley, who's never known for his subtlety.

"And it would be a departure from my norm because whenever I explode, it's something else other than intestines that would spill out," continued Stanley, who's never known for his subtlety.

Carl looked blue and bloated from his seat, and I wasn't sure if he was in that condition because of Stanley's visuals or my curry.

Then, Carl let out a satisfying belch, closed his eyes and smelt the air, and said "compliments to the chef".

As I brought out a tray of coffee for everyone to aid digestion, Stanley lay on his side and said "After all the activities I had been doing that mimic the steps to pregnancy, I think I finally know how it feels to be heavily pregnant."

Carl the dense one responded by patting his own tummy.

"Adam, if I die from indigestion, know that it was a good last supper. Go forth and tell everyone that I had indeed led a very full life -- right to my last breath," Stanley said gripping my wrist and speaking like someone was strangling him. 

Carl drowsily made the sign of the cross at Stanley, blessing our very full and theatrical friend.

"Adam, Carl, pen down the words I'm about to say," Stanley the drama queen said as he continued to lie on my couch as if it were his death bed.

"Listen carefully. These are the words you would engrave on my tombstone if I die," he said tearfully.

Stanley Ong

1979 - 2020
All his life, he'd been dying to be laid (to rest) and now that he's officially and eternally bottom (of this grave), Stanley is happy. 

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

I love Singapore

It's August.

The time of the year again when some of us reflect on what it's like to be Singaporean -- and hopefully, count our blessings to be born in this country.

Of course, Singapore is far from perfect.

And there are people who genuinely dislike being Singaporean (I know a handful who have nothing good ever, to say about our country, our culture, our food, our transport system, our blablabla, and, oh, of course, our government).

But today, I'm not talking about those negative, toxic people who have so many opinions, so many views, so many complaints, yet take no action to leave the country and take up citizenship in Guatemala.

I love my country.

I love that I'm born here.

I have even begun to love the flaws that the Western World had pointed out about us: We can't put chewing gum into our mouth, we can't urinate in lifts even if our bladders are bursting, we can't spit in public though the Merlion can, we can't have consensual gay sex legally, we don't have press freedom nor the freedom to burn our bras anywhere outside of Hong Lim Park.

While there are things we can definitely work on, I would do anything for my country.

If Singapore needed a kidney, I'd donate one to her.

If Singapore were bullied in a girl gang fight, I'd back her up with a rolled up newspaper in my left hand and a sharpened pencil in my right.

If Singapore were dumped by a bastard and got drunk and wasted, I'd gently hold up her hair while she puked outside Butter Factory, beside the Merlion.

"Why can't Singapore be a guy," Stanley my sex bunny friend wanted to know.

"I mean, why must countries all be referred to as women?"

"If we can think of Singapore as a cute, hunky guy, do you know how many gay men would willingly lay their lives down for him?" asked Stanley, who won't think twice about willingly laying himself down for any cute, hunky guy.

But the point is, we all love Singapore -- in our own unique way.

Some of us love like we're Romeos: Loud, proud and outrightly romantic.

The kind who would not only display flags outside their condo balcony and decorate their car with mini flags, but would also go the distance to wear red and white clothes for the entire month of August.

Then there are those who love Singapore like a traditional Chinese father.

The type who don't hug you and say I love you when you come home, or shout well done when you get 10 upon 10 for your Chinese ting xie spelling test.

But who would quietly put his palm on your shoulder when you break your arm in a motorbike accident. Or quietly slip $50 in between your textbook after your mum violently objects to giving you extra money for a class birthday chalet outing.

And then there's Carl.

Carl our dense friend, who up till this day cannot recite the pledge in full nor sing the national anthem without massacring at least 6 Malay words, is at a loss for all types of words right this moment.

Carl is struggling to list one reason why he's thankful to be Singaporean and how much he loves his country, so he chose instead, to post in the group chat the gif of Merlion spouting water.

Stanley immediately responded with the gif of a Tang Dynasty princess vomiting blood.

But even though Carl is dense, Stanley is slutty and I, hmmm, let's see, am intelligent, the point I'm trying to make is that regardless of personality types, we are all capable of loving our country.

I know that if there were a war, Stanley and I would gladly take up arms and fight for Singapore.

Years ago, when Stanley and I were in National Service, we talked about how we felt moved to tears when we took our oath to defend our country.

Stanley later clarified that it was because he thought he was too young to die, and we both had a very good laugh in camp.

But don't get us wrong.

The Red Berets -- trained to attack and defend, and also protect and care with those same pair of hands -- are the cream of the corps, and we will fight for honour and glory.

"Honestly if I have a choice, my pair of hands will be doing other fun things, but yeah, I'll fight and claw and pull hair for my country," said Stanley, ever the team player, player being the operative word that describes his sexual life.

Later that night, Carl replied the group after giving it a great deal of thought over Stanley's question.

"I love Singapore because..."

Stanley and I waited.

Then Carl continued typing:

"This is home, truly. Where I know I must be. Where my dreams wait for me. Where the river always flows."

Stanley later messaged me privately that if we ever go to war, Carl the dense one can be sent as an advance party to spy on our enemies.

"Because if he ever were caught, he would never divulge any of our operations secrets because he is truly clueless."

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

Friends for Life

It's International Friendship Day and I feel very obliged to write about this low-key event.

There are days dedicated to love, mothers, fathers, beer, HIV / AIDS and even the growing of moustaches.

Yet, the all-important International Friendship Day -- the foundation of human interaction -- is often forgotten.

It's such an underdog.

I ask in my group chat "Just the Boys" to see how much they know about International Friendship Day.

Carl the dense one -- who doesn't remember his mother's, father's, brother's birthdays, and who doesn't know the difference between Hari Raya Puasa and Hari Raya Haji -- responded with an icon of a girl who seems to be shrugging.

Stanley my sex bunny friend who is very in tune with worldly affairs, current affairs and all other types of affairs, responded with a gif of a half-naked man who seems to be shagging.

"All hail friendship day," Stanley wrote.

"@Stan are you making this up," Carl asked as if Stanley were a scammer who's about to make him wire money to an offshore account.

And so in the spirit of friendship day, I want to dedicate this blogpost to the people in my life who may not be related by blood to me, but have become my loved ones.

They say you can't choose family.

But when it comes to my circle of friends, one has full control.

And I'm glad I do.

Today, if I were to clutch my heart and fall gracefully and die from a heart attack, I know I'll have four pallbearers who had verbally promised me they'll carry my coffin.

I'm not joking.

I had this conversation many years ago with some of my friends.

Two of my pallbearers are familiar characters in this blog.

Stanley my sex bunny friend, and Terry my straight best friend.

"I hope you die of a disease that shrinks you to bones," Stanley said matter-of-factly when I asked him if he'd carry my coffin if I died first.

In keeping with this spirit of friends who'd go all out to love me, here's a little list of what I love about them.

Nisa 
Best girlfriend since Sec One

Nisa is whom I'd describe as someone with big love. And she expresses it with actions. Always showering friends with homecooked food, gifts that add value to their lives -- like traditional Chinese medicines that nourishes one's health. And always literally going the distance to run errands for them.

Terry 
Straight best friend since Sec One

Terry is the one who introduced me to endurance sports like marathons. He's one of the country's fastest runners on record, but whenever we run a race together, he never overtakes me, always pacing me from start to finish, encouraging me to never give up -- just as he does in real life.

Stanley  
First my NS pal, and now one of my best friends 

Not only is Stanley the protagonist of my blog, he's also one of my strongest cheerleaders in life who would never fail make me laugh, drive me around whenever I needed him to, would never judge me for whom I am.

Carl
One of my first IRC friends 

Carl may be dense but when you truly need him to wake up and save the village he gets the job done. Carl's not the mushy group-hug, air-kissing type of friend -- in fact, his love as a friend is very much that of a traditional Chinese father. He loves you, but he doesn't show it.

Sasa
One of the pillars of my universiity life

I first met Sasa in university. At the campus bus stop, I remember clearly. I used to call her Bimbz -- short for bimbo -- because she has a giggly squeal and laughs at almost every damn thing. Life without Sasa in uni would have been very dull. But how Sasa has grown. She's now a successful career woman (living the life as a tai-tai on weekends) but she's never lost that girly, hearty laughter. I see Sasa as the best of both worlds. To others, she's that intimidating Devil who Wears Prada but to me, oh, if they only knew.

Bella
My first work friend, my first work wife

We always have one of those -- best friends from work whom we refer to as our work spouse. Except in my case, Bella and I never snogged in the office pantry, nor swept the office table clean of stationery to have a quickie. Bella has a beautiful voice and we hit it off when we hit the notes at office KTV sessions. Soon, Bella and I shared more than just work problems with each other, and we grew so close that although we're now world's apart (Bella moved to the US with her husband), we still keep in touch to keep the care and love going.

There are, of course, a lot more people whom I'm thankful for and this list is non-exhaustive.

Cliché as it's gonna sound, I'm gonna leave some space here.

Because my future will be filled with more friends to come.























Happy friendship day guys.

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