The Highly Anticipated Return of Morose Man

And so out of sheer bore­dom, I went and joined the teem­ing mass of human­ity at Zouk and Wine Bar at the behest of SM. Very bored. Very sheer.

Thursday’s ‘Do you even have a life’ query must’ve struck a raw nerve. I’ve been think­ing about this a fair bit. But I think I shall remain in denial for a bit more. There is life out­side of work. Heck, I don’t even write about work. Not that I hate work, but it’s just not pru­dent to talk about work.

At Wine Bar, me and SM had a jug of vodka red bull each, chew­ing the fat, and get­ting chat­ted up by For­eign Men. Not good at all. (Hey, buddy, what’s that you’re drink­ing? Is it good?) As bad as the time a few years ago when a For­eign Woman whis­pered in my ear, ‘Hey mate, you know, I’m gay, but I fan­ta­size about hav­ing sex with gay men.… d’ya live ’round here?’

I still haven’t brought myself to call my cousin to con­vey my con­do­lences. My rel­lies in Serem­ban are a weird bunch. Every year there’s a death in the fam­ily in strange cir­cum­stances. Uncle Eddie starved to death last year, and now Aun­tie Dun­nowhat­sher­name col­lapses in the toi­let and no one notices for six hours or till some­one else wants to use the loo or something.

Yes, I need a break. I need a hol­i­day. But work’s sched­uled till end of Novem­ber, and I have com­pas­sion­ate leave slated for Octo­ber, for when I travel to Hong Kong to hand over the ex to her new husband.

And when work fin­ishes at the end of Novem­ber, there’s reservist, which I nor­mally would look for­ward to, but because it’s tak­ing up two weeks of hol­i­day time, I’m not.

I’ve already slated a trip to a trop­i­cal par­adise with my one true love. She’s fly­ing here to meet up before we up and leave again and laze away Christ­mas at a villa or some­thing. Mmmmm nice.

Some days you just wanna cut some­thing up bad