I'm cursed.

No, I'm serious.

As in dead serious.

No matter where i stay, the smell follows.

Well, what can i say. The smell absolutely loves me. Us.

Aside from the 101 things i wanna complain since moving from hougang to sengkang,

this has got to be the death of the coincidental.

Now, dont disturb while i try to ring the Pang Brothers up for the next production of
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The Curse of the Deadly Coincidence.

Afterall, their massive box-office hits for The eye and The eye 10 are proof that i should find them. It's my destiny.

Ok. I shall cut the crap and go straight to the point.

The fishy smell is killing me.

It's stinking up my clothes and kitchen and the whole bloody apartment.

Oh my god. Even my bile duct is stinking up.

Cant aunties just go sign up for some crash course for
"The idiot's guide to cooking good fish. P.s. we can make it smell like lavender!"



Damn the ahh sohs. And Poor fish.

I mean, how bad can it get to die a horrible death, then be fried and cooked in chilli and soy sauce, only to find out you stink real bad even after your death?

Oh, how tragic.

I mean, wouldnt the already pathethic situation be somewhat, i dont know how, better if you are presented in the best possible manner as the deluxe gourmet at a 5-star restaurant?


Right, you can now stick me in the eye and slam dunk my head for the rubbish you have read.
Fishy style.