Is my perception of love f*cked?

It’s 11:17 pm here in Singapore, and I’m seated at the kitchen table with my legs propped against the opposite chair. The fan is blowing directly at me, my hair is wet, and nestled on my right side is a glass of wine with a few cubes of ice. I’m blasting an r&b playlist while typing this out.

I don’t know why, but I feel urged to write.

Just a couple hours ago, I was chatting with my housemate over a big pot of chicken adobo I had whipped up. When I learn a dish, I make it until I’ve perfected it. This was pot #4.