And Here I Sit

The trouble that I have in thinking up titles for these posts is equalled only by the mutability of what I was intending to write. I think maybe in a way the titles reflect the fact that what I was thinking of writing five minutes before the laptop boots is no longer in my mind and then the title box calls for my attention and I am completely somewhere else by then.

I am feeling amused. I am sitting on the floor of my apartment, having just watched some program on the Thai sex trade that my cable box recorded a few days ago, not that I was sitting on the floor to watch it, no, that happened on the couch, as I ate a 'chunky tomato' pizza (family size only $7.70, the Monday special, a different flavour on special each day) that really wasn't worthy of the name 'tomato', or maybe it was, there was probably one tomato cut into smallish 'chunks' on this family size pizza, which is funny, 'cos usually the 'killer mushroom' (Wednesday's special? I can't be bothered getting up to check the menu) is actually quite good and loaded with heaps of mushrooms (plural), and this is possibly the longest single sentence that I have ever written. I feel proud of that small achievement. But the thing that amuses me is that my knee is killing me. For some reason that I must admit I do not understand, the fact that I am in pain from this is somehow decidedly funny.

Why is it so?

As the TV scientist that expanded our childhood minds used to ask.

Probably because so many puerile little things have been pissing me off lately and now something serious grabs my attention. It is some sort of relativistic counter point.

I miss Singapore.

Here I am, in a flat that Singaporeans would call huge, that costs less than my tiny HDB cost, earning four times what I could get in Singers, but I am unhappy.

You know when some smart-arse tells you that money isn't everything and you laugh in their face? Hmm, well, I guess sometimes that strategy backfires.

Oh, yeah, just 'cos you will ask; the program was by some pommie guy that came to some sort of epiphany over the sex industry not being the image that had been programmed into his head, that he couldn't get over the fact that the girls were, in their own relativistic way, using the clientele, that most of those trafficked against their will were actually young children being used as beggars, that the foreigners were all messed up in their heads, and that he couldn't make sense out of it all. And no, I don't know how I hurt my knee, no idea, too much walking? Sleeping in a bad position? Maybe I am just getting old and crotchety? Yeah, I know, I am forty six, relatively healthy, not too much over-weight, blah, blah. And I don't know why I miss SG so much, I mean, sure, it makes sense that I don't like my own country and so therefore I wish I were somewhere else, and yeah, I really enjoyed my time there, and yes, I had a much greater sense of freedom there and there was a much deeper and richer culture, and it is so dead boring here, such a total culture void. But homesick seems a little illogical, excessive, reactionary.

Whatever. I am sad.