If I weren’t self-employed, I’d be blogging about how nasty work is, how I work with idiots, and how my bosses couldn’t tell a marketing plan from a block of flats.
But I don’t have the privilege of being in that situation, so I can’t blog about it. Instead, I’ll yabber on about how I enjoyed an extremely hedonistic weekend that was so unrelenting I had to neglect writing entries here for two whole days.
There is a tinge of guilt as I write this. The wife languished at home over the weekend while I went out and partied, spent an inordinate amount of time with one particular girl, got drunk, danced till my kneecaps swelled, and then spent Sunday arvo recovering on Orchard Road playing Scrabble with the same said girl.
A friend asked why I was rubbing my knees,
‘Heh, why pain ah? Carpet burn ah?’.
‘Went clubbing lah’.
I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing if my friends would rather believe I was having sex more than they’d believe I went clubbing.