Being Bored

I loathe the MRT. It is always packed to the brim on weekdays, and no matter what time I go home after work, it’s next to impossible to scoring a seat. Fine, but not only that, there’s the sheer indignity of relinquishing my personal space to some retard who has to air his armpits (and I would usually move away instead of subjecting any part of me to face that) or who thinks it’s perfectly all right to be 5 cm apart from another human being and assumes The Other is happy with it too. MRT etiquette, my darlings. And then there’s this huge influx of foreign talent ranging from hardcore labourers to white-collar professionals who seems to have no problems getting their ass rested. Amazing. Check out peak hours and see who the perpetual seat-warmers are, and how many among them are locals. It’s glaringly obvious and I wonder where the foreign talent start boarding. Which is still fine, except the whole world seems to reside in the extreme east. I don’t get to sit from start to end, damn it.

Have not met him at the train station since last week but I finally figure out that his one-syllable reference to me is “ange”, which sounds like a strange hybrid of range, rage and angst. I had popped over his cube earlier this week to run through some agenda and found him on the phone. So I waved and waited outside, and heard him saying “ange” is here to end the conversation, which makes me smile. ‘Cos it’s so foreign sounding and not even a legal shortening (which would be angel or angie) and obviously the other party prob went huh, wtf so he had to provide my full name and department as augmentation.Yes, I kinda overheard the whole thing. Haha. Ok, that’s the cheap thrill of the week.