After my breakup with Cancer, I was having a conversation with the Yardstick over one martini too many. He was leaving and I drank waaaay too much even for my standards. Imagine me slurring and me shifting precariously on the bar stool.
"Marriage should be like a business transaction. I mean look at my parents 13 years of marriage later, my dad goes off to marry a woman not much older than me. Fast forward another 12 years later, now he's telling me that he's tired of his new wife. And talking to me as if I'm his friend as if to get sympathy or validation. WTF. I should be the last person who should believe in love. There is no love. It's non-existent! There can only be lust and sex."
He listens obviously amused and asks me to tell him more about the business transaction.
"You see natural selection will not allow me to shag an ugly guy. Simply because I'm not ugly, I'm not drop dead gorgeous but I'm not ugly. You've got to be one of the best looking guys around in the bar and yet you're fixated on me."
At this point he laughs, looks around, two well dressed chicks pass him and says, that's because you have the nicest tits here.
Image used for editorial purposes only.
"Well at least they're good for one thing," I answered in a deadpanned voice.
So I reckon if I could one day find me a man who supported my endeavors, have aesthetically average looks, have 2.5 kids, an apartment and provided food on the table, I might cave and settle as opposed to going into academia, getting published, writing a novel, writing a cook book. Becoming an alcoholic, doing drugs, dying young.
If I really wanted to be an overachiever, I'll marry an Indian Eurasian, my kids will defo enter Ms Singapore Universe. Or Ms Tiffany if they're as fucked as I was.
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