Oh you’re so naive yet so…

This year, for Raya, I didn’t hit the $100 mark for the raya collection.

How depressing. *munches on raya kuehs sadly*

My previous trip to Thailand commenced rather memorably. I arrived at the Suvarnabhumi Airport, and was in the queue for a taxi, with this huge luggage trolley. As a taxi arrived for the person in front of me, I pushed the trolley forward and obliviously ran it over the gargantuan feet of the English man. His face immediately flushed red as he tried to suppress the influx of profanities coming out of his mouth. “Mumm… fuck… gah!” I watched this spectacle, dumbstruck.

Still hopping around in pain, mad over the apparent desecration of his Hobbit-esque feet, it took him around five minutes before he finally succumbed to catharsis. He threw his luggage into the boot, presented me with a middle finger, and got into his taxi.

And I never got the chance to apologise.

Good times, good times.

I’ve always LOVED the Spice Girls’ spontaneity.

Ever had those days when you find yourself at a loss on what to do? You’d feel chained with lethargy; anything you do would be as unproductive as a rabbit experimenting the concept of abstinence.

I attempted to fold the mounds of unfolded clothes in my wardrobe (digesting the importance of household chores, which is supposedly attainable from all the army regimentation shit, is inconceivable for my case), but I reckoned it’ll amount to nothing as I’ll give up halfway. My nose has all the prowess of a bloodhound’s, hence it’ll probably act up from all the dust. I’ll most likely end up spraying all the clothes with bacteria, and I’d have to get them washed again. Unproductive.

I attempted to draw something to add to my portfolio, so I can at least deceive myself with the idea that I still have talent. Alas, the blisters on my palms that I’ve gotten from incessant chin-ups deter my ability to successfully manoeuvre a 3B pencil. What good would that do, unless I plan to emulate a toddler’s creative interpretation of his kindergarten teacher (which oddly looks like Gandalf with a case of leprosy instead)? Unproductive.

I attempted to clean my sister’s room (mine’s always spotless, ruling out the insides of the wardrobe), but her humble sanctuary’s littered with all the different kinds of bra you can imagine, I applaud my younger brother for being able to share the room with her without deciding on a full-time career at Orchard Towers. No, I’m not one of those boys who still believe in the existence of cooties. I just don’t like the fact that I won’t know whether the next pair of bra I pick up from the floor carries what invisible residue that excretes from my sister’s mammaries. Mentally scarring, I know. Verdict? Unproductive.

In conclusion, I think I’m better of just sitting here, resuming my being as unproductive as a rabbit experimenting the concept of abstinence.

The story of my life.