Author: MOSG Contributors

"Remember Sodom and Gomorrah? And how they were punished because the people were so sinful?" "Of course. Cities of gays and fags. The result of Pink Dot succeeding." There is some laughter around the table. This is during a cell group meeting. I attempt to interject. "Well, they were rapists. You cannot overlook the fact that they wanted to gang rape the two visitors - who were actually angels - in Lot's house." "Yeah, but the rape is secondary. The angels were disguised as men and they wanted to rape the men. So the main reason is because they were a bunch of homos." Another cell member adds, "Actually, I think the real issue here is why Lot offered his two daughters to the gang-rapists..." and the discussion shifts towards this statement in which it is much more obvious why it is problematic. I am still listening, but I sigh inwardly. Such an episode is just one of the many instances in which I've come face-to-face with the hidden strand of virulent homophobia running within my church. I say hidden because my church does not openly promote an anti-LGBT campaign like Pastor Lawrence Khong of Faith Community Baptist Church; rather, LGBT issues are rarely spoken of in my church. Nevertheless, it occasionally bubbles up, revealing an image of simmering, virulent hate. Now and then, there are those few sentences in the sermon where LGBT rights gets lumped in with ISIS and Syria as the moral challenges faced by Christians today. There are the moments during cell group or Bible Study where homosexuals are unanimously denounced as those who will "go to hell" because "it is stated as a sin in the Bible". There are the snatches of gossip among my peers in church about finding the son of a prominent church member on Jack'd (a dating app for gays) while they were browsing it to see "how f***ed up it was". And inevitably, whenever Pink Dot rolls around for its weekend in June, half the church shows up on Sunday dressed like MPs, with the affirmation by the worship leader that "it is good to see where our church stands". It goes without saying that such moments make me uncomfortable. Not because I am a deviant destined for hell, but because of the ease with which a community of otherwise friendly people can turn into furious church militants, baying for condemnation, just on the subject of a person's sexual orientation. There are fellow church-goers I have talked to whom, for all of their dedication organizing church activities and running Sunday School for children, have spoken unblinkingly about playing a part in bullying classmates who were perceived as gay back in school - and who could laugh about it. One of them even declared, "If I found out my son was gay, I would beat the gay out of him. Seriously, having a gay son means you have completely failed as a parent." I tried asking one of the pastors later, "Surely there are LGBT people who are Christian too. Isn't it unfair to think that they will be condemned for it?" To which he replied, "If they are Christian, they must give up their deviant lifestyle and be straight again. If not, they cannot have their salvation." I still go to church. It is difficult to stop when your family attends it as well, and your father holds a prominent position within it to boot. Tongues will wag and gossip about a family member is by far one of the most damaging things for someone working in the church. Given that my father is the sole breadwinner of the family, the general anti-LGBT stance of the church, and the fact that I am the eldest son, there is a real fear that there will be disastrous consequences for my family if I come out or am ever discovered. Still, I consider myself fortunate. I have a handful of friends outside of church whom I've opened up to regarding my sexuality, and who give me great support and the space to really be myself. But the main reason, I suppose, for why I have managed to escape the more serious discrimination my gay friends face, is because I am bi.

Why being bi comes with a set of privileges in Singapore

At this point, it is essential to point out the differences between being gay and being bi. Much of the LGBT discourse here often conflates both sexualities and this often leads to misconceptions, even among the LGBT community. Some bizarre questions I have been asked by the friends I've come out to include: "How can you want to f**k a girl yet also wanna f**k a guy? Is that even possible?" "Does this mean your ideal sex is a threesome with a guy and a girl?" "So you can like, choose who you wanna get turned on by?" "Will you eventually decide on a single gender?" "Are you sure you're not just going through a 'gay' phase?" For a while, while I was still unsure, I said yes to that last question. But eventually, I realised that it was difficult to call it a "phase" since it's been going on since I reached adolescence a decade ago. I am attracted to both guys and girls. What else can I say? I exist in the spheres of heterosexuality and homosexuality simultaneously. And because of this, I have the privilege of being able to have a normative heterosexual relationship, while my gay peers are denied legality and status in their relationships. I will admit, there has been more than one occasion where I would use the hetero aspect of my sexuality to hide the homosexual aspect - i.e. putting on a "straight" front while catching up with my male friends, talking about a girl I genuinely found attractive, while appreciating how one of the guys served as great eye candy. The same goes for when I am in church. Some days, I feel my bisexuality is a blessing, but there are also days when I feel embarrassed and like I'm a sham. Sometimes, I wonder if it is even accurate to say that I can identify with the LGBT crowd. As one of my gay friends bluntly put it, I have an "escape option" within our conservative society, and it wasn't without a tinge of envy that he said it. "You can choose not to come out you know? Especially if you get into a relationship with a girl." It was a statement that made me very uncomfortable. For in a sense, it was true; on the surface, everything would look normal. Everything would be socially acceptable. My family and church would never have to know. I suppose it would save me and my family from an ugly fallout.

It's not a choice

Even so, I cannot hide the homosexual side of me, and neither can I deny it. People may disagree and I am perfectly fine with that; I just do not see self-denial or self-effacement as the solution. As cheesy as it sounds, I believe I must be true to myself. I simply cannot fathom pretending this side of me does not exist. The same goes for my attraction to women, despite my friend's insistence that "you'll eventually choose once you have had enough sex." I just happen to be wired this way. Perhaps it is in part because of my resolve not to be pressured into fitting in a "gay" or "straight" box, and in part, a fear of being discovered that I haven't been able to commit to any kind of relationship so far, be it with a guy or girl. What we really need is acceptance - acceptance of who we truly are. Privately, I support the Pink Dot movement, but with so much social pressure and religious intolerance working against us, I am pessimistic about anything concrete being achieved. For now, I shall just have to be content with that small freedom I have among my closest friends, for I am not strong enough to face the consequences of coming out yet. <a href=" Image Credit
When I mention that I lived in Singapore, most people would say “Oh, like Singapore noodles” or “Is that in China?” or “I had to stop there on the way to Australia”. Although being seen as part of China would be irritating to most Singaporeans, I find the latter the most irksome. I love Singapore. The little country with such rich culture and diversity is so much more than a pit stop en route to Australia. Before moving to Singapore, I read every travel guide and watched every YouTube video on Singaporean lifestyle and culture. I really scraped the bottom of the virtual barrel of knowledge about Singapore since I was moving more than 11,000km to live here for almost a year! So, here’s what I learned about the mysterious Singaporeans after a year of living, breathing, and eating Singapore.

Singaporeans are polite and obedient

I spent almost a year as an Ang Moh in Singapore. Yes, that’s what I’ll call myself, although most Singaporeans are far too polite to directly refer to me as an Ang Moh, even while they don’t like to admit that the term has any negative connotations. I find this delightfully refreshing after being to China where the locals repeatedly yell "Laowai" at any white person they happen across. Singaporeans are obedient citizens, unparalleled to anywhere in the world (except maybe North Korea, but best not to get into that), although the medieval corporal and capital punishments may have to answer for this level of nationwide good behaviour. You have never seen such orderly queueing as at an MRT station at rush hour. It’s an OCD heaven. Yes, it may be a bit whiffy inside the cramped train but it is heart-warming to know that every aunty can kick an able-bodied young man out of his seat or face the wrath of disapproving glances from other train users. I couldn’t actually believe that youngsters made news and were branded as troublemakers for nothing more than running alongside the train and getting back on before the doors closed. It’s a far cry from a school shooting! Order and rules are respected above all else here in Singapore. I am yet to meet a Singaporean who would even think about disregarding a packet of tissues at an otherwise empty table.

Singaporeans are competitive

Singapore has a reputation of being super smart. Yes, it’s true, all the stats say so, but a driving force behind this nation of high achievers is competition. Singaporeans are competitive and big fans of heated discussions... You’re having an argument, just admit it. I would challenge you to find a more competitive nation but I won’t, because that might also cause a “heated discussion”. It is easy to blame the pushy parents on this one - we’ve all seen the Asian father meme. For real though, someone needs to tell your parents that not everybody wants to be a doctor. The main culprit of this competitive culture is the education system. I spent 1 year in that battlefield that is Singaporean 3rd level education, and before you get all argumentative, no, I didn’t just have to get a pass like most exchangers; I actually had to compete with you guys for good grades against the odds of the dreaded “bell-shaped curve”. So, trust me when I say you guys need to chill out. Yes, education is important and you need to work hard if you want good grades, but there is more to life. I unapologetically state that there are things in life which are much more important than good grades. I would quite frankly like to throw De Moivre, Gauss and any other contributor of the bell-shaped curve down a garbage chute of the tallest HDB building (just kidding, I’m a life science graduate, I need that shit).

Singaporeans are patriotic, and also not

I had the good fortune of being in Singapore during the 50th anniversary celebrations and I was astonished by the air of national pride Singaporeans have for their country. Singaporeans are fiercely proud of being just that, and how far the country has come since independence. I was also living in Singapore during the death of Lee Kuan Yew, which was oddly terrifying. The passion with which Singaporeans grieved was shocking for us Ang Mohs who hadn’t even heard of him before. However, the underlying resentment of the country's strict policies is apparent especially in the younger generations. Young adults who feel stifled and restricted in Singapore dream of one thing - leaving Singapore. I had fallen in love with this country. I tried to extend my student visa so that I could stay in this beautiful city a little longer, to the dismay of many. I even made a return visit just last summer. I was devastated to hear that most, if not all, of my friends and classmates want to leave Singapore and to set up new lives in Australia or America. Sure, I can see why “the land of the free” might be enticing to young Singaporeans, but Singapore is an amazing place to live, with its stable economy, high employment rates, awesome food, and being arguably the safest place on Earth. So, Singaporeans, don't you all abandon ship just yet.
When I was a child, I believed I was born in Singapore. Like many of you, my earliest memories are of growing up with my Singaporean family, in my Singaporean flat. When I was 11, while struggling with my Chinese homework, my mother screamed, “Why are you so bad in Chinese when you’re from China?!” That was the day I found out. That was the day I learned that I was born in China, and adopted by the family I thought was my own. I am an adoptee, taken from the family that didn’t want me, and raised by a family that treated me like a second-rate child. I am an adoptee. And this is my story.

Unwanted and Discarded

In 1979, China introduced the One-Child Policy, which allowed families to have no more than one child or face the possibility of fines, sterilizations, and abortions. Since the Chinese have a strong tradition of patriarchy, with an emphasis on continuation of the family name, boys were favoured strongly over girls. As a result of this policy, many Chinese girls were killed at birth, or given up for adoptions. Am I thankful to be one of the latter group, and not the former? I suppose so, and my adopted mother certainly made it exceedingly clear that I should be. We often have an assumption that adoption is a last resort, that only couples without the ability to have children of their own end up adopting. That wasn’t the case with me. My parents were perfectly capable of conceiving, and they did just that with my older brother, and later, my younger sister. I was an adoptee growing up with siblings that were not adopted, and it sure as hell felt like it. My mother decided to adopt me from my poor family in rural China, for reasons not completely known to me. It might have had something to do with the abortion she had had shortly prior to my adoption, her conversion to Christianity, a simple act of charity, a combination of all of these, or none of them. Whatever it was, she has had to repeatedly make the point to me, from age 11 to this very day, that I owe her.

Childhood

I was never a bright kid. I struggled with homework and exams. My mother tried to help me with my homework, but always only ended up scolding and beating me. She would hurl insults at me, calling me demeaning names, and when words weren’t enough to express her contempt, she hit me in the head with her bare hands. One time, she grabbed my little head in her hands and smashed it into a wall, and stopped only when my maid came to my rescue. I never fought back, never even spoke a word out of place. How could I? It would have been so disrespectful. A part of me always felt like I must have deserved the abuse. I must have been really stupid and useless, because my siblings received no such treatment. I had no idea if they were really much smarter than me in school, but from how I was treated at home relative to them, they had to be. It wasn’t until I learned of my adoption that everything started to make sense. The bias, the chores that I had to do from young that my siblings never even had to touch, I thought it was all because I did badly at school. I resented myself for being stupid, and fought tooth and nail for my parents’ approval. My mother said I should look at ITE courses because I’d never make it anywhere else, but I ended up getting a spot in a Polytechnic Psychology course, and later, a local university. It felt good to prove her wrong, but even after all that, my mother’s disdain for me never ceased.

Meeting My “Real” Family

When I was 13, I went on a trip to a certain village in rural China to visit my biological family. It was a strange experience, meeting complete strangers who were bound to me by blood, an entire family I had never known. At the same time, though, it was exciting. There was a certain thrill to finally meeting a family whose members actually looked like me. But that’s where our similarities ended. Before my university graduation, I returned to China once again to attend my younger brother’s wedding, and learned more about how vastly different my life could have been. I was frowned upon by the friends and relatives of my biological family, all strangers to me, for being unmarried and child-less at my ripe old age of 22. In the village, marriage was almost never on the basis of love. It was just a way of incurring more wealth, and forging better relationships between families for financial purposes. Others were match-made like my second sister and younger brother to their respective spouses. As for my elder sister, she took a different path - met a city boy, fell in love and then got married after. As of now, my elder sister has a bratty son, while my second sister has two kids with serious attachment issues. As I’m writing this, my younger brother has had two kids, and I wonder how he’s coping. And here I am, still living with a family that looks down on me. It’s like I have two families, but at the same time, none.

And Here We are

Today, I’ve come to realize that I will never match up to my siblings in the eyes of my adopted parents, and that’s alright. My family still treats me like a second-class daughter. My younger sister, as always, has no respect for me whatsoever. My unemployed mother constantly demands money and branded goods from me while asking nothing from my siblings. My parents scold me for staying out with my boyfriend, but make snarky comments towards me when I’m at home. I feel bound to my family through years of conditioning, yet feel none of the warmth and love that people say I’m supposed to. I still long for something I’ll never have, to feel like something I’m not – to be a real daughter. <a href=" Image Credit
“Am I slutty?” This is a question I often ask myself. I even ask it to my friends, “Do you think I’m slutty?” I genuinely want to know. They tell me no, you just have a high sex drive; no, you’re only a slut if you hit double digits; no, you’re single, it’s fine! Some of them genuinely mean what they say, but some of them – I can tell – are just trying to make me feel better. Maybe they think it’s a trick question. While I couldn’t care less what strangers think of me, I do care a great deal what my friends think. Do I see myself as slutty? Well, yeah. What else do you call someone who sleeps with people they’re not in relationships with, makes out with strangers in clubs, and sends nudes to boys just because they asked? I’ve slept with boys I haven’t been attracted to in the slightest. I sleep with them because I want sex, and they were available. So, if a slut is someone who has many casual sexual partners, then I’m guilty as charged.

The Young Slut

There was a time in my life when I was bothered by this label. I was 17 and studying in polytechnic. I was hooking up with different boys from school, sending photos of myself when innocent text conversations turned into something more. I thought I was an awful person. I knew in my mind that I should not be doing this, but I also wondered why? It felt good, not just physically. It felt good to be wanted, to have your body desired. Why shouldn’t I do it? It was my choice after all, wasn’t it? Back then, people would call me a slut behind my back, and it hurt whenever I found out. Gossip like this spreads fast, and the further it spread, the more warped it would become, such that when it came back around, it was a completely different story from what had actually happened. During those day, I would get these looks from schoolmates when we passed in the campus corridors. You just knew they were talking about you, that they knew of you and the things you had done. It’s a confusing environment for a woman who is just finding out who she is and what she believes. Once, the mother of one of the boys I hooked up with caught us in the act and yelled at us. She told me I was a loose woman, and that I had no respect for their family. She might as well have called me the S-word.

Staying True To Me

These days, a few years and many experiences later, the label no longer bothers me. These days, I've learned to embrace who I am, what I want, and what I believe. I've learned to embrace the fact that I am a woman who loves sex in a society where it is indecent for a woman to show any signs of wanting it. I've learned to embrace my belief that long-term relationships and monogamy isn't for me -- at least at this stage of my life. I've learned to embrace all of this in spite of the knowledge that many Singaporeans will not approve.

So What If I Am, So What If I’m Not?

These days, with Tinder, Grindr, and all that becoming a normal part of our dating experiences, and with shifting attitudes towards relationships, sex, and bodies, people are less judgmental about non-committal sex and casual relationships. Still, there remains a group of people who thinks differently -- a majority that will still call the type of woman I am a 'slut', as if they were morally superior to me. They think I will give myself to anyone and for anything. They think I don't value myself enough. Little do they know that I am doing exactly what I want. There was a time when I was ashamed of being a 'slut', but in the last 7 or 8 years, I've learned that it doesn't matter. It does not define me. Maybe I am a slut, and maybe I'm not. The important thing is that it is not all that I am, and that I know who I am outside of these labels.

This Is Me

We all have a choice as to how we live our lives. This is how I’ve chosen for mine. This is my body and I have the right to do whatever I want with it. Maybe monogamy works for some people. But it’s not for me. I don’t think there is a right or wrong when it comes to relationships -- only what is common and what is not. What I do think, however, is that this choice fits me now. Maybe a few years down the road, I will think differently; maybe then, I’ll choose differently. But that is for me to find out later on. Until then, it is no one’s business but mine who I sleep with, how often I do it, and why I do it. And no one is going to make me feel bad about doing what I believe is right for me.
I was born Muslim. I grew up in a Muslim family. While my parents weren’t the most religious of people, my upbringing was very much Muslim. I went for Friday prayers at the neighbourhood mosques, was taught to read the Quran, and would visit the mosque during Hari Raya Puasa and Haji. As a young boy, I went to religious classes every Sunday morning, where we would learn about the different aspects of the religion- it’s history, the five pillars and how to speak Arabic. I attended all my religious classes diligently and even got a certification of completion by the end of it. Religion for me at the time wasn’t so much about belief as it was about following my parents, because that’s just how it is. You follow the religion of your parents, because they’re your parents and you’re just a child. I did as I was told; No more, no less.

Losing my religion

When I was 14 years old, a friend invited me to a Christmas party. I had no idea it was an evangelistic event until we were an hour in. The pastor was speaking about the death of Christ and its significance. It was only then that I realized I was actually sitting in a sermon. At first I thought, “Shoot, I’m trapped.”, but since I was already there, I listened as the pastor preached about the essence of Christmas. Maybe it was the music, the melody or the words of the worship songs, but somehow that all got me questioning things—questioning if there truly existed a god, because before then, even though I was Muslim, I’d never believed in a higher being; as far as I was concerned, God didn’t exist. Eventually, my beliefs shifted to the point that I started believing in an actual god – the Christian god. I had been converted.

Secrets at home, judgement outside

My conversion to Christianity came with no small amount of fear. I had no idea what would become of me if my family were to find out. I was terrified, so I tried my best to keep a low profile. Among my friends, I was Christian—I even ate pork. But when I was home, I was a whole other person. I had to act the part of a Muslim. I couldn’t eat pork. When it was time to fast, I fasted at home but as soon as I was out of my parents’ sight, I broke fast. Part of the act was out of fear, but a big part of it was also out of respect for my parents and what they believed. For about 5 years, I had to lie every Saturday in order to go to church. My mum would always ask me, “why you always go out on Saturdays?” It was lie after lie, last week it was, “I’m going out to study with my friends,” this week it’s, “I’m going shopping for new clothes.” There was always this paranoia that they would find out, and I was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. All my friends knew I was a Christian, but not all of them responded positively to this. While most of them accepted it, there were a handful that didn’t, and who would ask me why I converted just so they could shoot me down and rain criticism on me. In school, some of my closest Malay friends would keep their distance from me. They wouldn’t talk to me, which is why I have a lot more Chinese friends now than Malay ones. About 6 years after I converted, when I was in NS, some of the people I knew would attack me because of my beliefs. One of my instructors that found out dragged me to one side after breakfast one day, while we were waiting to go back to our dormitory, and said to me, “Wah, if we’re not in Singapore, I would have killed you already. It would have been my duty to kill you.” I knew he couldn’t do anything, so I retorted, saying, “Yeah, lucky we’re in Singapore. You can’t do anything to me.” Muslims judged me, Christians judged me, even friends I knew who were neither Muslim nor Christian had something to say about it. They would say things like “Eh, like that, aren’t you betraying your own family?” or, “Don’t you think your family will be upset?” This is because there is a Muslim law that holds your family responsible for your faith. If you betray the faith, it’s on your family as well, because it means they haven’t brought you up well.

And then my parents found out

Eventually, my parents found out because they found a bible in my room and that’s when all our problems began. I tried reasoning with my dad, explaining that he couldn’t force me to believe in something I didn’t believe in, and that even if I did follow him and “behaved” like a Muslim, he and I both knew that in my heart, I wouldn’t be one. But still, he would keep saying, “cannot”, “cannot”, “cannot”. Things didn’t progress and it came to a point when things became violent. I didn’t want to fight back because my dad was already getting old, so all I could do was block him as he beat me. That day, I ran out of the house half-naked, with not even shoes on; all I had on were my shorts because my shirt had torn from the beating. I didn’t know what to do because I didn’t want to fight back, but at the same time, I was about to explode, so I ran. My pastor—a Malay pastor who has also been through a similar experience—came down to talk to me and comfort me. He offered to open his home to me if things got worse, but he made it very clear that I should try all ways and means to make things right with my parents. I was prepared to run away. I told my mother that if my dad beat me up one more time, I was gone. She told me to come back, to not talk about religion for the time being and promised to make sure my dad didn’t hit me again. From that point on, my family didn’t speak openly to me about religion anymore. Neither did my dad and I speak. That went on for about 2 years.

What now?

Today, 8 years on, I’ve made good with my family. They still refuse to accept the fact that I’m Christian, and from time to time, they still try to change my mind about Christianity. When news comes up on Pastor Kong Hee, they make a big deal of it, saying, “see, Christians are like that.” They raise the issue of rich pastors, and they do little things here and there to put down Christianity and lift up the name of Muslims. The more I’ve grown in my faith as a Christian, the more they’ve seemed to grow in theirs as Muslims—my mum, my dad, and my sister. While I’ve been serving and being more active in church, my mum’s started to pray 5 times a day; my dad’s been going to the mosque every day; and my sister’s been going for more advanced religious classes. This year, my parents are going on a pilgrimage to the Middle East. While there is not a war right now, I am fearful that it’s only right around the corner, like when I marry my Christian girlfriend. She might need to convert — at least according to Muslim customs — and I know for a fact that she won’t. Neither of us can fathom being of a religion we don’t believe in. Other people may disagree with me, and they are free to do so. Maybe they’ll say, “I’d rather things be peaceful within my family, and I’ll give up my belief if that’s what threatens to tear us apart.” But for me, belief matters and I cannot easily give that up.

Religion in Singapore

No matter what happens in the future, I know I will stand by my beliefs. After all, I’ve already gone through so much to defend my right to believe it. Stories like mine are not all that rare. The details are different, but the struggle is the same. We face condemnation from all sides—those of the same faith as us, those of a different faith, those who know us, those who don’t, friends and family. In Singapore, by right, no one can do anything to you based on what you believe. But there are still many ways people can hurt you. Your friends can ostracize you. Your family can beat you. Everyone is free to judge you. From all I’ve heard and experienced, racial tolerance and religious tolerance are just how things appear on the surface. Sure, we can all live together, but if you strike out on your own and believe something different from everyone else—especially everyone else in your family—that’s when you realize how ugly things are, or how ugly things can get when religious differences are in the picture. At the end of the day, religion and what you believe is a highly personal matter. It is not for others to decide for you, and it is surely not something you believe simply because your parents do. The best I can do is stand by my religious beliefs while respecting those of others, whether they be family, friend or stranger. Top Image Credit
“Hey, I’m home. I’m going to bed once I’ve showered and caught up with my parents. I’ll talk to you later, k? Love you.” I wasn’t at home and I was nowhere close to heading to bed. I was still out and I’d just blatantly lied to my partner. Where was I? I was with someone else, having a few drinks after we'd had the perfect dinner date together. I’ve cheated many times. I think I can safely say I’ve cheated in more than half of my past relationships. It's not something I'm proud of and it’s definitely not something I tell everyone I meet. Everyone’s got a deep, dark secret, and this is mine. I’ve cheated both physically and emotionally. I’ve slept with other people while I was still with my partners. I’ve also somehow managed to develop a relationship with someone else while in a relationship. Each time I cheated, I’d spend hours questioning myself, wondering how I could let myself commit such an act. And still, I let myself cheat again and again.

Motivations of a serial cheater

At some point, it dawned upon me that the main reason I continued to cheat lat with me: I cheated because I was trapped. I was trapped in a string of unhappy relationships in which I could never muster the courage to break up with my partners. Cheating was something I used as a form of respite from something that brought me down day after day. I used cheating as a coping mechanism against my unhappy relationships; I used it to derive some happiness, something my partners no longer offered. The feeling of cheating on your partner is perhaps one of the strangest feelings a person can feel. In that moment, when you’re cheating, you find a way to disregard the relationship you’re currently in. It feels like you’re living a separate life, a life that’s not yours, and you’re this whole other person altogether. As you go about the act of cheating, a part of you feels fear, guilt. You fear getting caught by your partner, or your partner’s friend… You’re out having a meal or having drinks, having a good time, but throughout that time, you’re paranoid, plagued by a fear of being found out. You’ve committed such an unforgiveable act, and you know it. And this feeling of guilt gnaws at you, because you know it would break your partner’s heart if he/she someday found out. But even as you feel and know these things, you still feel a sense of happiness, a thrill, a satisfaction from this other person you’re out with, sleeping with.

The hardest part about cheating

There were a few occasions when I was almost found out, and it is those moments when they start asking questions that are the worst. You panic. You’re overwhelmed by anxiety. You try to recall if you’ve deleted all traces of cheating from your devices—your phone, your Facebook, your emails. And when all that’s been processed, you start to overreact. You start to shout. You get defensive about everything. You try to turn the argument around, and you try to make it seem like your partner was the one who was being insecure. You try to throw him/her off in every way possible and pin the blame on them, on how they don’t trust you wholeheartedly.

To cheat or not to cheat?

Even though I’ve cheated many times, I have never been caught. I’ve always ensured my tracks were covered, and my lies, bulletproof. I pre-empted my partners’ response, how they would react, and I had my answer or reaction prepared. To be honest, it takes a lot of effort to cheat, and to do it “well”. If you weigh the happiness you derive from cheating against the effort it takes to cover your tracks, and all the emotions that come with it—the paranoia, the fear, the anxiety, the guilt—you’ll realize it just isn’t worth it. I’ve had my fair share of cheating, and trust me when I say the benefits never outweigh the costs. I’ve since grown from all that and no longer cheat, but that’s because I no longer allow myself to suffer silently in unhappy relationships. Why be with someone you’re not happy with, only to have the relationship you really want on the side, and in secret?
Want a funny, entertaining new Facebook page to follow? Head on over to Singaporean Influencers and Bloggers Write SHIT English and are Annoying AF and knock yourself out. Yes, that is their real name, and it’s hilarious AF. The page has recently stirred up some discussion among writers in Singapore about the supposed SHIT-ification of the written word in the country’s publishing landscape, at the hands of bloggers. “We don’t ask for inspired, lofty, brilliant prose,” they write. “We ask only for grammatically correct English. Is that too much to ask? Surely not.” “Surely not”, indeed.

The Grammar Nazi’s Dilemma

We, of course, will not pretend to stand tall as beacons of fine literary prose. Alas, some may even consider us a part of the common shit-writing rabble *cough* snobs *cough*. Yet, we can’t help but find a part of ourselves identifying with the frustration of the folks behind said FB page. An annoying, grammar-nazi-like part, but a part nonetheless. The English language, like any other language, is essentially a system of communication; a tool that requires consensus on its set of rules and established structure. Communicators using such a system need to agree to be bound by the standards that govern it in order to enable clear communication. If we ignore the established rules of grammar and syntax in writing and reading English, we betray and erode the very purpose of language. But then again, should we just chill out? If readers understand the “shitty” writing that they’re reading, is that not enough to meet the needs of the writer-reader exchange? Every potential grammar Nazi faces the same dilemma when feeling tempted to correct the language of others. Should I defend the integrity of the English language? Or should I not be an annoying prick? No one likes being corrected, especially when the error of their language is not significant enough to compromise their message. On the other hand, allowing mistakes to slide enables an environment for the bastardization of language to propagate. “Which side should I lean to? Grammar Nazi or inactive enabler?” I don’t know. That’s why it’s called a dilemma.

Let it be

Should we begrudge bloggers for wanting to transform their thoughts into writing, eye-stabbingly bad as it may be, for an audience that doesn’t seem to mind? Purveyors of bad writing could always break out the old “if you don’t like it, don’t read it” argument, and, honestly, they’d kind of have a point. Critics of bad writing, filmmaking, and music have tried long and hard to push back against the shit that permeates their respective industries and improve their overall quality, yet we still get inundated with successful trash like Twilight, 50 Shades, Transformers, and Justin f*cking Bieber. People just like stuff like this, and while we can do our part to raise the standards of media that we as a society consume, we cannot control what people like. The point is, with the democratization of media, you can’t stop people from writing shit-quality blogposts, as long as that work gets viewed by readers. We live in a neoliberal click-obsessed world where success in writing is determined not necessarily by the quality of said writing, but by how many people click on it. Try as we may to champion the improvement of clear English communication, many people just don’t care, and we can’t blame them. Some people don’t have a perfect command of English, and therefore see no need for it in the writing they consume. Those people still have a right to read what they want, and if what they want happens to be packaged in English that’s been dragged through the literary sewers, there’s really nothing we can do to stop them. While it pains me to admit it, lampooning and looking down on those who peddle less-than-worthy written content, while understandable, is simply pointless. We should instead focus on creating and promoting content with proper English in an effort to shift the popular opinion away from “shitty” bloggers, and towards the writers that deserve it. Top Image Credit
You were once the world to me. We knew each other like the backs of our hands and spent nearly every waking moment together. There were days when being beside each other wasn’t enough, and there were days we got tired of each other—but the bottom line was always the same; we loved each other. At least, I hope we did.

You used to hold my hand every night and share with me all the ways you thought life was beautiful. You used to talk about how we would build a future together. We would stroll together, discuss the house we would live in, the children we would raise, the lifestyle we would lead, the home we would make. We would travel the world together and immerse ourselves in all the different cultures.

We were the couple everyone thought would stay together, forever.

And then one day it all vanished, leaving behind nothing but words left unsaid and the photos to prove that what we once shared was indeed real.

I was the one who let you go. I chose to give you up instead of work out our differences. You didn't want to walk away, but I made you. I cajoled and I begged and I was the one who pushed you away. I was the one who let you go, even as I doubted if there could ever be someone else who would love me the same.

When I watched you finally walk away, your back turned resolutely on me, I expected liberation; I expected relief to wash over me. At the very least, I expected guilt to come over me, guilt for not giving my all in fighting for us. But there was nothing of that sort. You simply crept away, into the dark of the night, and as quietly as you had entered. That day, you took something of mine with you. You took a part of me I knew only when I was with you.

With each day that passed since we agreed to go our separate ways, the void in me grew deeper. I wondered if it could ever be filled, and I asked myself time and again if I did the right thing. Can you ever truly let go of someone you still love?

Oftentimes, circumstances get the better of people and events play themselves out. We may have been lovers and best friends once who shared some of their best moments in life together, but all good things inevitably come to an end.

We started off as strangers, and we've come full circle—except now, we're strangers who know all of each other’s little secrets. There will come a day when we will look back on the times we shared together and be able to smile genuinely, but that day will not arrive quite so soon. It's a journey that only time can take care of.

In the meantime, it’s okay to dwell in the past every once in a while. It’s okay to reminisce the time you both burned that steak you tried to cook, the time you pieced together that impossibly huge jigsaw puzzle, the time you stayed up all night just revealing all your secrets to each other; the time you fell asleep on each others’ shoulders, how you tried to complete each others’ sentences, your miserable attempt at break dancing together.

With the passing of time, as with a million other inconsequential matters, the memories that were once vivid will gradually fade. The shared experiences will one day be relegated to the deep recesses of your mind, and you will be okay.

People tell you that healing is a long and arduous process, but one thing is for certain—it will happen. With the passage of time, even the most painful of memories fade away. When you’re finally able to sit yourself down and look at all your old photos without feeling that pang of regret or overwhelming sense of nostalgia, you know you’re getting there. I may have been the one who let you walk out of my life, but I think there are some people you love that you never really stop loving. You allow them to graduate from your life as a stranger, but you also remember how they have changed you and made you the person you are today.  So, this is how you let go of someone you love; you take them down from the pedestal and you allow yourself to forget, one shred of feeling at a time.   
I am a perfectionist. I am sad, I am frustrated, I am stressed out, and these days, I find it hard to find any kind of work rewarding. These days, I fight tiring, losing battles with myself in my head. In true perfectionist form, I try to appear like things are under control when inside, I believe I am not good enough in nearly every way. I am not clever enough, not creative enough, not capable enough. I don’t write well enough. I’m not growing fast enough. I suck at my job. You could grab someone off the street to take my place and he’d easily do a better job than me. Literally anyone else is better than me. What the f*ck am I good for. It’s depressing, being in my head. I look at other people and I wonder how it is they can take things so easily. Why can’t I be as happy, as free, as light as everyone else is? Oh my god, why can’t I just chill? Now, I’m well aware that this isn’t good for me. I tell myself I need healthier thoughts. I tell myself I need to get comfortable with the idea of making mistakes, that there is so much to be gained from making mistakes. I tell myself perfection is a lofty, lofty ideal that will only drive me crazy. And still, it is only a matter of time before I fall back into old ways, back into the cold arms of my punishing need for perfect.

The pursuit of perfection

Perfect sounds wonderful. We talk about the perfect life, the perfect home, the perfect family. Perfect sounds perfect. Perfect sounds like the ultimate goal to aspire towards, the gold standard—but it isn’t. What I’ve realized is perfection is a curse in blessing’s clothing. It’s not a reasonable goal. It should not be the gold standard. What it is, instead, is a path towards self-destruction. See, perfectionists are their worst critics. Before you tell them their work could be better, they’ve already told it to themselves, in much harsher ways. Perfectionists are well-acquainted with the words “stupid”, “useless”, “dumb”—they regularly use them on themselves; they feel these things every day. The thing about perfectionism is we set ourselves up to fail at every turn with our excessive standards, and by these standards, we diminish ourselves every day. In my experience, the longer I’ve worked, the harder I’ve strived for perfection, the more incapable it’s left me feeling. Things that started out fun, things that I started with love become ruined once touched by my toxic perfection. At its root, perfectionism is about fear. Perfectionism is what happens when you’re deathly afraid to fail, when you’re terrified of criticism. Perfectionism is when you strive for excellence not because we want to, but because you simply can’t not. We can’t fail because it’ll reflect on who we are, on what we are capable of. We can’t fail because in our minds, we are only as valued or as worthy as we are successful. Beyond the practical things that are at stake, like our job or our reputation with our higher ups, our sense of self-worth hangs in the balance.

F*ck perfect

I’m a perfectionist, and maybe this is who I will be for a very, very long time. But I’m trying to teach myself a couple of things: First, that perfect is good but not necessary. Not everything has to be perfect. The occasional typo in an email is allowed. One slight misstep will not be the end of my career. I am allowed to produce sh*t work, if my best truly is sh*t. Sometimes, trying is enough—it's surely better than not trying at all. Second, trust yourself anyway. When perfectionism makes a home in your head, self-esteem is quickly kicked to the curb. And with an injured self-esteem, you can lose trust in yourself, even if you have good ideas, are a great problem solver, or actually have many valuable qualities to boast of. Many perfectionists are doing just fine in reality, and it only feels like things are going to sh*t in our clouded heads. Third, I’m teaching myself to not be defined by my work. Surely there is more to us than the work we do and how good we are at it? In life, we play so many roles: the child, the partner, the friend, the colleague. There are 101 ways to play those roles well, to be a truly valuable human being. So, I’m going to define a person’s worth my way, and I’m going to find a way to love myself, apart from the work I do and how successful I am at it. I am much more than how good a worker I am.