A real friend… Really, how can you tell? Well, I happen to know. You are a “real friend” of mine if you…

• Know that I eat like I have Prader-Willi Syndrome and it’s not an enigma for you how I manage to stay in shape exactly;

• Know that I fancy wearing long-sleeves but that’s certainly NOT because I have heroin injections or slutty tattoos all over my arms;

• Have seen me in my knickers (VS Pink undies!) which I sleep in and sometimes walk around my bedroom (which is BTW called the “Tangerine Room”) in;

• Know that I’m secretly in love with James Taylor and his brilliant plucking skills;

• Know what ghastly transformation I've gone through: From Korean -> Thai -> Canadian -> Japanese (particularly from Okinawa) -> Hippie -> Taiwanese -> Am-Girl -> Na’vi -> Blondeonite! Thank god, I’ve never been called a Neanderthal;

• Know that I was once a sarcastic biotch slash bully who practices emotional terrorism;

• Have seen me pointless

• … and drunk;

• Have seen me with a fag in my mouth but, really, you know very well that I DON'T EFFING DO CIGARETTES;

• Know I'm an ‘only daughter’ and sandwiched in the family tree by a couple of barmy, nosy brahs;

• Know that I can't live without noodles (ramen in particular);

• Know that I have a serious case of ADHD and you bloody know just how to handle me;

• Believe that deep inside I'm quite a good person (with an orange halo!) though I usually (and deliberately) give off a snobbish or biotchy impression;

• Know when it's time to stop handing me vodka shots (the heavy yet elated scarlet eyes, the “conyo” talk, and the purring sound!);

• Are able to tolerate my moods but I'm just always soooo effing energetic and loquacious (which exhausts you most of the time);

• Know which outrageous song I will sing first on karaoke;

• Know what instrument I will grab first during RockBand gigathons;

• Have found out that I'm best with friendly-fires (Shows what kind of mate I really am, eh?);

• Know when smth's wrong with me (that is sometimes toooo obvious);

• Automatically assume that I prolly won't reply to your text messages because I simply hate texting;

• Know that every so often I’m weird so I'd talk about how different the sky’s shades of blue are compared to yesterday;

• Know that I can’t sleep without a tad of luminosity and a comfy duvet, and I snore;

• Know that I turn into an effing schizo – talking to myself or to my laptop during paper crammings;

• Have seen me at my worst (probably when I have an incredibly runny nose or my puffy eyes without the eyeliner);

• Know my most disgusting habits like munching on dead skin cells around my fingernails;

• Have seen some of my old artworks as I don't really swank about them much now;

• Know when I'm full of bullshit or not;

• Know how to pacify me when I'm out of control;

• Know what frightens me the most (i.e. men wearing huge black gas masks who look like mad terrorists or lunatic Anthrax-slayers or just plain psychos);

• Know when to slap me;

• Know when to give me a hug.

Now, let’s re-evaluate our relationship here. Are you truly a real friend of mine? If you are then CONGRATULATIONS! You’ve survived one nightmare of a friendship.

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Crushed. Crushed. Crushed.