Must not stab pencil in eye.
While in train, pretty woman, in her late 20s, sitting beside me receives a text from A.A.Hubby. She giggles. She reads the text.
A.A.Hubby: Dear ah. I eat bfast alr. Going to work now. Burp Burp.
She giggles even more.
She: Orh Orh, dear. I on mrt now. Muacka Muacka. He he.
What the fuck is wrong with these people? Who the fuck above the age of 13 texts like that? Seriously. And how many husbands does this woman have that she calls this one A.A.Hubby? Is this the one she met at an ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ meeting? Sheesh.
Workplace Talk
It’s past 10.30pm. I’ve finished doing the inventory and was hovering about restlessly and not to mention, ravaneously hungry. The new manager was taking his time, pointedly ignoring the fact that we had clocked out and that we weren’t paid to wait for him.
Heading to the kitchen, unable to reach the trays on the top shelves, my colleagues laughed at the sight of the helpless me. It was then when someone reached out for the same tray and handed me it.
Me: See? That’s a con for being short.
Charleston: Perhaps you’re meant to have people willing to do the job for you.
And he winks at me and whipped me up a lobster linguini.
Oh hot fucketty fucking damn!
Lunchtime Battle
Eileen, Mun and I were buying food back from this little Malay eatery we chanced upon this morning.
They order their food and hover around restlessly because it’s one of those days when I’m feeling extremely indecisive. I finally do place my order and we all stand in our little corners, fiddling with our phones, waiting for our takeaway. Somewhat three minutes later, Eileen’s food arrives as does mine. We wait for another ten minutes for Mun’s food and then another five minutes.
Eileen: What the fuck is taking them so long?
Mun: Maybe she didn’t hear me or got my order mixed up.
Mun walks up to the counter and asks about her order. She is pointedly ignored until she bangs her fist hard on the table. The shop lady nods at her brusquely and shoos her away like she’s filth or something.
Mun’s too damn nice for her own good and she walks back out smiling.
Mun: Let’s go. I’m not really hungry.
Me: What the fuck? Wait here.
I walk in and over to the counter.
Me: *Points at Mun* Hey. How long is that girl in purple supposed to wait for her food?
Shop lady: Oh, she ah. Never mind. Now lunchtime. We must serve important customers first.
I force myself to breathe before I punch this bitch’s face in.
Me: And she’s not an important customer? How important are the rest of these customers then?
Shop lady: Maids can wait la. You don’t worry. You got your food already?
Me: She’s a maid becuase she’s a Filipino? That automatically makes her an unimportant customer? For your information, she’s a goddamned nine-point O level student. And what the hell are you trying to say? That maids aren’t important? Aren’t they paying too? So why the hell should your service to them be any different than that to ‘important’ customers? How stupid can you get? She’s Filipino so she’s a maid? What the fuck.
She conveniently pretends she doesn’t understand English. I don’t care.
Me: You want to stereotypes? Fine.
I slam my food down on the counter.
Me: Give me my money back. I don’t buy food from hookers.
She looks at me blankly.
Me: Aunty, ah. I don’t buy food from stupid prostitutes.
Her face distorts with anger and she is one ugly fuck.
Shop lady: You get out! I call police then you know! You come to my shop and call me prostitute?
I am fairly tickled that she takes more offence to being called a prostitute than stupid.
Me: Well, you’re dressed like a prostitute so I called you one. My friend is Filipino so you assumed she’s a maid and not ‘important’ enough to serve. Go ahead and call the police. I’ll lodge a complaint about you and your restaurant in tomorrow’s paper.
She mutely opens the cash register and returns me my money. I leave it on the counter and walk out.
Shop lady: Girl! Your money!
Me: Keep it. Use it to get yourself some decent clothes.
She’s a little scared to get close to anyone because everyone that said ‘I’ll always be here for you’ left.
“
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
I just want to get inside your head, so I can see how you feel about me. It’s all I wonder about lately. All I want to know is what you see.
“
You put on a good show, but I’d be willing to bet that you’re suffering more than you let anyone see.
“
I have this spot in my heart where I hold everything I’ve ever felt from you. Pain, joy, tears, laughter, jealousy, utter dependence – everything. It may be concealed under new memories, joy, and love, but there’s no doubt it’s there.
“
The damage was permanent; there would always be scars. But even the angriest scars faded over time until it was difficult to see the written on the skin at all and the only thing that remained was the memory of how painful it had been.
“
A fine example of a king, loving, and compassionate Singaporean.
The train is uncharasterically empty. A middle-aged woman sits beside me. As we reach DhobyGaut, she gets up. Her purse hits me smack in the face as she bends over to pick up her two suitcases.
Me: FUCK! *belatedly spot a little kid looking at me* *kid’s mother glares at me*
Woman with suitcases walks past me, knocking her luggage into my shin.
Me: What the hell, woman.
Woman ignores me.
I call out after the woman.
Me: Aunty! You hit my face and leg!
Woman turns to look at me, disgruntled expression on her face.
Woman: Accident right? Not purposely one.
Me: And that makes it completely okay to walk away and not apologise or even find out if you’ve caused bodily harm?
Woman: Aiyah, what? Why should I say sorry? Accident la. Relax la.
Me: You try getting hit in the face with that ridiculous cheap imitation LV bag of yours and see if you can relax.
Woman: What you want now? My stop reaching already.
Me: I don’t care if it was a fucking accident. You fucking apologise and ask if I’m okay.
She stares at me, throws a racial slur my way and hobbles out of the train on her monstrous pink heels.
Kind, loving, and compassionate, my ass.
