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2047

iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: I Can’t Wait – John Hiatt – Walk On, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.

You go on a trip thinking it will recharge your batteries, and that you’ll come back refreshed and ready for work. No lor. I am crabby as hell. I’ve not figured out which is the right side of the bed to wake up on in the last three days, and judging by the way things are, I’m not likely to be as chirpy as a Valuair cabin crew member any time soon.

Unfortunately, the number of profanities I’ve been churning out in long sentences has increased dramatically as well. Especially when driving. Just now, I honked at a taxi and cursed him and three generations of his descendants, that they’d fucking end up fucking driving fucking taxis for the fucking rest of their fucking lives. [Translated and paraphrased from the Hokkien/Cantonese by Mr Miyagi’s long-suffering muse/secretary]. By the time I finished the rant, I had driven from Orchard Boulevard to Holland Village, where another taxi cut into my lane and caused me to brake hard and curse long again.

Feeling just as crabby was my friend whose pile of university assessment markings was finally toppling over. She sent me an SMS asking if I knew what one student meant by a ‘splittering [sic] and drastic sound’. I replied, pronto, ‘that is the sound your grandmother makes when she falls down the stairs’.


‘There is one thing that I cannot lend….’

Reviews of 2046:
Cowboy Caleb
So Oddly Dreamlike
Evie

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