100 Dumb Ways to Die

I've always appreciated the portrayal of friendship in The Hangover movie series, and I often fantasized about being able to do the outrageous things the guys did. But, as societal norms dictate, girls and women are typically not expected to visit strip clubs, drink too much, or openly discuss their sexual encounters. This means I often feel confined to nail salons, spa treatments, and sipping overpriced, girly cocktails in my designer heels.

While I don’t mind that lifestyle, I can’t help but envy the freedom that men seem to have to engage in reckless fun—and get away with it. Even when they be wearing bermudas and flip flops and look like Stu. 

So, it’s no surprise that in 2018, I found myself drink driving in Malaysia without a proper license. When the police pulled me over and asked for my ID, I knew I had to think fast.

“How much?” I asked, half-joking.

He laughed and said, “Whoa, wait. Let me talk to my colleague.”

He returned with a straight face. “200.”

“Ringgit? OK.”

And just like that, we were off. This was supposed to be a post about "100 Dumb Ways to Die," but clearly, we survived my reckless driving and blatant bribery. If the officer had been a stickler for the law, I might have ended up in some grim Malaysian prison where, as a friend once told me, everyone shares the same water pitcher. I could have easily succumbed to my fear of bacteria and viruses and died by anxiety attacks in there.

Just the other day, I was out with Pw, and we briefly discussed "100 Dumb Ways to Die."

“Hey, I saw a TikTok that said if you fall out of a plane, aim for the forest or swamps instead of water, since water can be like hitting concrete from that height,” I said.

“Huh, so trees would cushion the fall?” she asked.

“Supposedly. But imagine getting impaled by a thick branch high up in a tree. You’d be stuck, bleeding out slowly, in excruciating pain, and no one would hear your cries for help. HAHAHAHAHA.”

“But don’t worry bruv, if that happens to you, I’ll call the rescue team. I’ll tell them exactly where you are. Just look for the trees near the crash site!”

Just like in The Hangover, with my current placement, I believe I have the ability now to do outrageous things and get away with them. The best part? I have a friend who’s just as cock, ready to join me in all my shenanigans. I'm just not too sure how her husband would feel if he had to come bail us out of jail one day. 

The Day Chrissy Got Too Much In Her Head

Reading back through my past entries, I realized I’m quite a funny person—and not a bad writer, either. I found myself laughing out loud at some parts, feeling a thrill reading the steamy encounters with K, and even tearing up at the little goodbye love letter to Carl. 

Carl. Carl. Carl.

In 2025, it would have been ten years since we parted, yet here I am, still saying his name after all this time. A decade—10 years, 3,650 days—and his name has never left my heart or my lips. To be honest, I was certain no one could ever replace him when he decided to leave. I didn't hold anyone to his standards because what he did for me and how he completed my life back then was unparalleled. No one really wants to know, because those standards were hard to live up to. 

My brother came over earlier to check on me and we ended up watching his church’s sermons together. I am pretty pathetic. I’m 39, and I’ve been using alcohol to numb the pain from this current ordeal I’m facing. I should be popping champagne and celebrating this new milestone at work, but instead, I’m not. I even finished a bottle of Shiraz last night. The evening before that was whiskey and Chianti, and the night before that was three-quarters of a bottle of Chianti. Before that, just more whiskey. This is bad. This is really bad. My liver hates me.

I refuse to write this person's name here (the person who's put me in this current painful situation) because doing so would mean he’s a prominent part of my life. I hate that you can easily Google him and find his search results all over the place. I hate that there are videos of him on YouTube. I’m just not going to engage with that because one thing’s for sure: if I read this entry later, I’d be asking myself, “Who is this person I’m talking about?” And so, I am not allowing myself to remember this person. But it doesn't mean my mind and heart are not screaming his name right now. It will pass. I will heal. I will move on. I must forget that he exists. 

My sex drive is a little all over the place now. I currently own two very expensive sex toys--one which I had ordered a few days ago and requested for same-day delivery. 

"You know it's like when you get so horny and they know that you can't wait to have an orgasm and so they provided the same-day delivery option," I said to PW. 

"Dude, the uncle who delivered it, did he throw you any dirty looks?" she asked. 

"No it was wrapped but he probably went to the sex shop and picked it up so he probably knows what's inside." 

"Wow, imagine he had known that you needed the toy urgently and asked if he could help, 'Xiao mei, uncle dao kar chiu ai mai?'" (Hokkien; translates to "little girl, uncle help you want or not?") 

We then burst into hysterical laughter. I then proceeded to show her the new toy which is a dildo that has a thrusting function. Apart from the Internet and ChatGPT, thrusting dildos might just be the best invention to have come from the tech boom. 

I had opened my bedside table and took the toys out and showed her. 

"Bruv, why do you have Ruyi oil and Yoko Yoko in here as well?" she exclaimed while examining the two bottles of lubes that were beside.  

"You know there was once I was pretty wasted, I wanted to take the Ruyi oil to rub my nose with, then I accidentally took the lube and rubbed it on my nostrils. Fuck, imagine if I had wanted to use the lube instead with my toy, and I had by mistake taken the Yoko Yoko instead and rub it on my pussy!" 

We both laughed so hard that I had forgotten this pain I was nursing inside me for a good one minute.

I still have Bo as my FwB but I think he's a bit pissed off with me now cause the last time when he asked to fuck, I ignored his text. So I texted him yesterday, "Hey, wotcha doing later? Wanna hook up?" 

"I'm not in Singapore, in Dubai." 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Where's a good, reliable fuck when you need one? I’ve never been a fan of having different partners—STDs are a real concern—but I might have come to realize we need more than one FwB! Unfortunately, my expectations for these arrangements mean I can’t just swipe right on Tinder and jump into bed with someone.

So, I thought of K (read my 2017 entries, and you’ll know who he is). He was, without a doubt, the best fuck I ever had, and I hated myself for deleting his number. I don’t even know if he still works for Apple or if he’s still in Singapore. I can still picture his half-naked body in those jogging tights, standing at his bedroom window with a cup of coffee—and that marvelous ass. If he’s nine years younger than me, he must be 30 now. Oh my god, has he gotten married and is he giving some woman the best fucks of her life? I find myself feeling a little jealous; why do all the good things never happen to me?

I used to be someone who was never without a relationship for long but since 2015, I have been very single. Mf was long-distance so it didn't feel like I had a partner as well. Though we've been together for a year, we only saw each other less than 15 times. 

“What do you really want? Don’t you think you’d want someone like Carl—someone who can see you every weekend, celebrate festivities with you, and take vacations overseas together like a proper boyfriend?” my brother asked earlier.

"I don't know," I responded. 

Maybe I don’t even know what I want when it comes to love and relationships. Perhaps I don’t want to be married at all. I kind of think marriages are overrated and a bit too fairytale-like for me. But the idea of having someone to laugh, cry and fuck with remains endearing.

Maybe, just maybe… I’m meant to be a player? The Butterfly was what I read obsessively while I was growing up, and I’m still fascinated by those encounters and stories today. When did I tire of going out on dates and meeting new people? I used to be properly wined and dined all the time. Michelin restaurants, fine dining, wealthy men, celebrities... What the fuck exactly happened to me since COVID-19?