Dear all,

I am deeply pissed off that I have to work. I don’t like working. I would like to sit at home all day and play video games and watch TV. However, we have to pay the bills and feed the car and also buy new shirts from time to time, despite the fact that this is all created demand to assuage the general unhappiness caused by having to work, and therefore to do this we have to work. This is really balls. Like, giant king kong balls. The other day I was walking by the trash chute where they put the giant trash that doesn’t go in the bin and I saw a bird bath. I thought to myself, look at all this junk that people throw away. If I did not make enough money to spend on junk that fills up my house I would totally take this junk into my house. Unfortunately, I am lazy and picky thanks to the fact that I have a little bit of money. What’s so shitty about a bird bath, and why am I now too snobby to put it in my apartment? These are all mysteries.

I spent today flipping out at work, type type type on my computer until it hung, taking a good two hours of work with it, then I got demoralised and decided it was time to gear up for going home. So I did that, and got home, and realised the toilet seat was out of whack. It was just sliding around all over the place like one of those fish that slide all over the place, when you are trying to gut and clean them in your sink.

I quickly decided to fix my toilet seat. It was gross. There was this liquid dripping through the nuts that I had to tighten, and I soon realised I would not be able to do this with my bare hands. I had to find some sort of wrench, which I did. I then squatted for fifteen minutes like I was puking into the toilet bowl except I wasn’t, I was staring at a piece of toilet paper floating in the bowl (I had to wipe some of the liquid stuff off the seat so I could get a better grip) and fumbling for the nut.

When I finished, I felt strangely accomplished. I had totally shown that toilet seat. I was Mr. Fix-it. Pausing to admire my handiwork, I gave the toilet seat a quick shake.

It was still wobbly.

I fucking hate these cheeky household fixtures. They will vex me to death.

Light in the bathroom
Sadly it has blown again
I wash in darkness

Yesterday, my buddy and I, after a series of cross-country adventures, ended up at this joint down at Orchard Plaza. How exactly we got there is a bit of a mystery - we just sort of meandered into a cab which magically brought us there, then ambled into a lift that we took to the fifth floor. The building was quiet, save for the occasional group of tired looking clubbers magnetically drawn by the promise of a party that ended at six and discount alcohol. We followed the eddies of the crowd towards a garish sign with the number 97 scrawled in red across the larger part of a wall, and passed the threshold into a dimly lit entry with a narrow staircase leading up into an even darker, sketchier looking club. We heard the sounds of crunk filtering down from above and my buddy immediately perks up, in the vain hope that this wasn’t one of those techno joints. He was wrong.

We floated up the steps as the crunk faded into the familiar hypnotic dum chi dum chi dum chi and were immediately assaulted by the sight of five luminous red lanterns, floating above a flashing neon dance floor. On the stage, a dragon dance dragon squinted at us through the smoky darkness. The god of fortune adorned the far wall, and was lighted with a sad glow which seemed to lend him a grim stoicism despite the sea of red surrounding him. We sat down and asked for a jug of beer. Someone suggested that we get a barrel instead, but the waiter, who was a fine specimen of all that is beng in the world, explained that, no we should get jugs.

“我跟你讲，barrel 你喝不到三 jug 的!”

Noticing that everyone was smoking, we asked for an ashtray as well. Lowering his voice, the waiter explained that this was a no smoking club. Because we were all bretheren ah bengs, he would pretend we hadn’t asked for an ash tray. He then launched into a complicated explanation of how we could keep our smoking low-key enough to keep him out of trouble, but his advice was lost in the sonic wall of the constant throbbing dum chi dum chi dum chi. He ended by asking us to make sure our cigarette butts weren’t noticeable. When I conveyed this to my buddy, he was taken aback for half a second while he tried to figure out where we would dispose of the offending articles. Half a second later, we were flicking our butts under the table next to us.

The beer arrived and was the same mediocre swill that you get everywhere. I’m never one to complain about mediocre beer, though, so we guzzled it down and headed to the dance floor. Groups of young chinese men and women faced each other and gyrated tirelessly to the endless throng of dum chi dum chi dum chi beats spit out from the crackling sound system. I noticed one guy facing the stage, possessed by techno, flailing wildly in homage to his dum chi gods. I was taken back to days in bunk with the lo-fi stereo system on a chair, the lights off and glowsticks orbiting all those friends I’ve since left behind. It really hit me then, if the lanterns and god of fortune and dragon weren’t enough - we were in ah beng land.

We were on the road back from New Orleans to Chicago, the three of us, when we decided to take a detour. We had been on the highway long enough, and it was about time for a change in scenery. Either that or we had taken a wrong turn somewhere and were deep in the Mississippi countryside. I can’t quite remember the details, but somehow, we were in front of a farm and decided to get out and stretch our legs.

“Do you see the balls on that cow? That cow has some balls, man”

The cow, indeed, had huge balls. My friend decided to document this photographically.

“Get a picture of me with the cow. Make sure you get its huge balls.”

He grabbed his package in a display of rugged manhood and I whipped out my camera. Or the other guy did - I forget. In the distance, though, we saw a pick-up truck appear on the horizon, rapidly gathering speed as it raced towards us.

“Oh fuck, dude, it’s the farmer.”

“I bet he has a shotgun.”

“Where’s the fucking car?”

The car was a hike away, and we were never going to make it there in time. So there we were, an Asian, a Latino and a disheveled frat boy in the middle of rural Mississippi, facing an impending shotgun.

“Ok, shut up and let me do the talking. I’m white, and also from Nebraska. I’ll deal with this.”

We weren’t going to argue.

The elderly farmer stopped his pick-up truck, stepped out and eyed us warily. We instinctively stood behind our white representative. Let the white people talk to each other, I thought. That, and also I wasn’t going to be standing in front when Mr Shotgun arrived.

“Afternoon, sir.”

The farmer continued to scrutinise our motley crew, then turned his attention to our white friend.

“Are you the spokesman for this group?”

“I am, sir. We were just passing through - meant no harm.”

“Whereabouts you headed?”

“Chicago.”

“You’re a long way from Chicago.”

He surveyed us for a couple more minutes, then reached into his car. This is it, I thought, it’s Mr Shotgun.

The farmer got back in his pickup truck and started the engine, and was gone as suddenly as he came.

“Alright dude, now take a picture of me and the cow with huge balls.”

So, yes, we lost 4-0 in the FA Cup. It was bloody awful; I was sitting next to my buddy, a Manchester United fan (strange, I know - how we are friends continues to puzzle me) and he was over the moon, though I could sense he was trying not to do laps around the table in order to be a bit more sensitive. Another friend asked me to text her the results of the match, but by the end of it, I could only manage, “Arsenal lost big time. Sucks.”

I got in to my car and felt like I was crawling home, like I had been shot in the gut. Four times. Watching your team get stuffed is kind of akin to getting beaten up with your hands tied behind your back, because there’s really nothing you can do. Judging from the way the boys were playing, there was nothing they could do either. All I could muster was the occasional, “Traore? Who the fuck is he? He sucks!”

Anyway, this morning I get an SMS in reply to my verbose description of the game last night.

“Gosh.arsenal sucks big time.4-0.gosh.”

Gee, thanks. I didn’t notice that they “sucked big time” when I watched them let my heart get ripped out by their (and by extension, my) arch nemesis… FOUR FUCKING TIMES.

Writing any more agitates me. I really need a stiff drink.

So yesterday my brother gets home from camp and points to the McWings that are sitting on the living room table.

“Did you buy McWings again?”

“No.”

“But…the McWings…”

“Yes, they’re from last week”

There is a pregnant pause.

“I thought you’d have settled them by Sunday.”

He waits half a beat for the gravity of my lethargy to sink in, and then adds, “and these are the fries from Sunday, too, aren’t they?”

I admit, this was not my finest hour.

I am a relatively busy person. I am also a lazy person. Because of this, I hire someone to do help me mop the floor, iron my shirts, do my laundry and tidy the house. Since I am not rolling in money, I hired a part-time domestic helper. Since I cannot be at home all the time to see what she is up to, she comes in on Mondays and does everything and I leave money on the table. I think this is a decent arrangement… except I suspect she is getting lazy.

I first noticed this when she would leave my shirts on some hangar, instead of putting them away. My room has been converted to a walk-in closet. Yes, I admit, I am too lazy to put my clothes away. But then, that’s why I hired a part-time maid in the first place, right? To put my clothes away? I didn’t really mind, though, because, as long as I had nicely ironed shirts, I figured it was ok. Except then I noticed my shirts weren’t being ironed properly. As a peon to the ruling classes of Singaporean society, it is important that I have nicely pressed shirts, lest my masters bitch-slap me for my unkempt appearance. As such, I sent her a stern SMS asking her to iron my shirts properly. It didn’t really work, but I figured there was some improvement, so I let it go.

After this, I realised that she wasn’t doing all the ironing. She would leave some for later. This was, again, unacceptable. However, I figured that, given the amount I was paying her, as well as the fact that I had a washer and a dryer, I could do my own laundry. Yes - that’s right, I’ve started doing my own laundry. I would leave washed clothes for her to iron, in the hopes that she would get through all of them. However, seeing as to how I can’t walk around naked, I would still leave some laundry for her to finish - whatever I wore over the weekend. I thought this was a nice gesture, but then she started to ignore the laundry I had left over. Yes, that’s right - she just left it there. I don’t think it’s a terribly difficult task to iron the seven shirts that I go through in a week - it’s not as if she’s cleaning up after an army of smelly people - it’s just me. But no, this seems to elude her. I also noticed that she has taken to leaving my delicates (and my socks) in a basket. I’ve been losing socks, and I have no idea where my underwear is in the morning. As such, I have to look for laundry baskets, smell them to make sure the contents are clean, then fish for underwear, amidst a sea of ties and unhusbanded socks. Then I have to look for socks and husband them, because, well, I’m too proud to wear unmatched socks. So sue me.

I’ve also noticed that, instead of taking out all the trash, she lets some of it accumulate. At first it was a couple plastic bottles left by the trash can in my kitchen. That was ok. Now, there’s a gigantic yellow plastic bag next to the trash can. Honestly, I can’t find my bloody trash can because there’s this giant yellow plastic bag next to it. So I throw stuff in the yellow plastic bag, hoping it will get nasty enough to force her to take it out. Yes, I know, I could take it out myself, but then - that’s what I hired her for in the first place, right?

I’m going to send her a stern SMS on all this soon. It will be very fierce, until it makes her pee in her pants and clean up her act. I think it will go something like this:

“hi. need clean sox - pls go thru laundry n put sox in sox drwr so I can use thm. thx!”

I can already smell the fear.

Typed a whole bunch of stuff, but it was boring, so will reduce this to my random thought of the day:

So, if you go to foot reflexology, and there are bits you can press for your liver, spleen, etc, then which part do you press to help your foot?

Man, I lead a sad life and have nobody to eat dinner with. When I go home I open my fridge and realise my pants have not been ironed. Not because my pants are in the fridge, but rather because the stale eggs, beside which there is no other food, remind me of the pathetic state of affairs around me (or rather, in my wardrobe). I remember that the cleaner took the day off again as I pick out the beer (only two cans left now, must go and buy beer again soon - alone - fuck).

I’m doing absolutely fantastic in the job, by which I mean I get constant appraisals telling me to maintain the amount of work I’ve been doing, and “jia you”, because my flat isn’t neglected enough as it is. I have a plant that died, which the neighbour (at least I suspect it was him; I don’t know because I wasn’t home) recently moved near the rubbish chute. It was kind of green when I last saw it, though I suspect it was more brown than green. The green was probably a trick played by my colour deficiency, which was probably in that mix bag of genes I got, right next to the prediliction for alcohol in my double helix, which is probably extra curly from all the mutagens I ingest to stay awake at the office. You fucking mutagens! Why can’t you do your job and not, like, mess up my body while you’re at it? Caffeine and nicotine are like party creatures who forget where the off switch was and then, like, partied all night. The little fuckers, they’re totally messing up my flat. By which I mean my body. By which I mean my life, which, like my flat, is kind of untidy.

Maybe I should, like, go for a run or something.