Book II: Hear He, Hear He: At the Train Station

Book II is called “Hear He, Hear He”. Writing from a different perspective now. I think this should be one of the most interesting parts of my novel. Current word count stands at 6501.

My hair is growing all over the place. You know how hair grows when it’s short? Badly. Yes, that’s right. Badly. Hair grows badly when it’s short. And that’s how my hair is growing: badly. I need a haircut.

I also need to return my library books. They are two days due. And with eight books to my name, at 15 cents per book per day, it adds to eight times two times the 15 cents, which is eight times 30 cents, which is: a whopping two bucks forty cents! That’s enough to buy me a meal! God, I really ought to be more meticulous when keeping track of these things.

I think I’ll head down to Hougang Mall. Nice, small place. Not quite enough for serious shopping. But who does serious shopping nowadays anyway? Isn’t the economy supposed to be bad? That’s what my mom tells me anyways. Shopping – that’s for girls isn’t it? But I love to shop too. I’m a guy, but I love to shop, is that a crime?

Maybe it is, so arrest me you male-shopper-phobic. Or don’t, and instead why don’t you go shopping with me? I need clothes. No, I need a haircut.

I wonder if the hairdresser would mind if my hair had wax in it. They always give me a certain look whenever I have gel in my hair and I go for a haircut, like I killed their pet dog or something. You ever get that feeling? They’ll stare at you with evil eyes – that’s what I call them – eyes that condemn you to neither hell nor heaven, nor anywhere in between. A nothingness of which you are in a state of limbo if you exist or don’t exist, don’t really care yet care a lot.

But if I don’t put gel in my wax in my hair, I’d look like a dishevelled loser. No, I don’t want to look like a dishevelled loser. I want to look like a punk with an attitude. No, I want to look like a gentleman, no, I don’t know what I want to look like. I want to look like myself, I guess. I want to look like the kind of guy who attracts girls but doesn’t get girls because he’s got his standards too high. Yes, that’s what I want to look like. But either way, I’m going to have wax in my hair.

I love to look good. Look good so that I can get a girlfriend. Sad as it seems, 22 years and I haven’t had a girlfriend. Haven’t held a girl’s hand; never kissed one; never fornicated one. Fornicate, ooh, how I love that word. Fornicate. Fornicate! First heard it in a Mike Tyson interview. Oh, how he loved “fornicatin’”.

It sucks not ever having had a girlfriend. Feels somehow inferior. But looked at another way, I can feel superior. I’ve had the will to hold out. But no, I feel inferior. I wonder if I’ll die a virgin, I don’t want to die a virgin. But then again, if I died, I wouldn’t live to regret it would I? No, I wouldn’t.

I think I really ought to be leaving my house now. Where’s my bag? Oh, here. You know, you get what you pay for. At least, that’s what I tell my mom who’s always telling me to save my money. Save, save, save. Who does she think I am, Jesus? I can’t go saving my whole life you know. You get what you pay for.

Damnit, but she’s right. Paid 99 good bucks on this bag and now its torn. It’s been, what, a month? And to think I threw away the warranty because I thought it’d last forever. Now, who’s that imbecile who told me it’d last forever… bah humbug. 99 bucks. My reasoning was that if I used it only little, it’d last forever, and I’d get a good deal. Or I could use it so much, that it’d pay back itself in no time, and I’d get a good deal. In the end I used it little and it broke and I got a bad deal. Damn this.

I hated walking to the MRT. It’s too far away. Okay, so it’s less than 500 metres, but it’s still too far away. I wished we could teleport. Just blink, like that genie in “I Love Genie” or whatever that show was. I remember that show, watched it all the time when I was a kid. Oh yes, I think it’s called I Dream of Jeannie.

So I’ve reached the MRT, and I’m sweating like a pig in a sauna. Should I or should I not take out my tissue to wipe my sweat, perspiration, whatever. Yeah, sweat’s for pigs. But damn it, if sports brands treat sweat as perspiration, I can treat sweat as perspiration, and so sweat is perspiration. Tissue. Tissue. Damn it, must tissue be so effeminate? There really should be some macho tissue or some shit like that. To hell with it, nobody’s looking, a quick wipe will do it. Damn, the tissue’s broken. Now I won’t know if there’s any left on my face or not. Damn.

Whoa, there’s a looker, business clothes too. Man, I love girls in business attire. Gives them a look of power, you know what I mean? I love powerful girls. Hilary Clinton, now there’s one hot mama. Power. Power! You know what I mean?

Hmm, this girl’s from some tertiary institution? Business attire looks new; holding textbook; shoes don’t match. Student definitely. Hmm, train’s here. I’ll just stand a little closer to her. Not too close, she’ll get suspicious, but how do I do that? Damn it. Life’s hard.

Hougang Station. I hope she gets off here. Get off here, get off here, get off here, come on girl, get off here! Please! Oh my God! Oh my God! She’s getting off here!

Thank you God! Oh, damn, did I say that out loud? Did that boy just complain to his mom that I was talking to myself? What the hell? Who’s he to judge? Oh look, he’s scared, ha-ha. Coward.

Oh my God, she’s looking at me. Did she hear me? Oh damn. Where do I hide my face? Damn. But what should I be ashamed of? It’s my life. Hell yeah! It’s my life! What are you staring at?