Those who prefer Molly to do some serious blogging (whatever that might mean in the context of the ridiculous Molly Meek) will have to make do with this entry for some time to come as Molly continues with a semi-break.
Singaporeanitis: the chronic inflammation of the singaporean triggered by an autoimmune disorder. Condition is aggravated by exposure to poorly ventilated, stifling environments. Incurable condition sometimes treated with multiple singapore transplants.
Our collective fetish is to kneel before the king who has left the throne, but still wears a massive crown that asphyxiates us under its demonic glare.
You sever my joints but throw me into a race as I lie paralyzed, trampled, hyperventilating.
Let’s move to the rear, step behind the yellow line to make way for the profit margin. Too civil to disobey, we would even murder Rosa Parks in Hong Lim Park for we are ordered to be orderly.
You imprison me for the crimes you perpetrated, locking vertical metal lines into my soul.
Spare parts of well-oiled grinder. Spare but not spared, we are micro-organisms programmed to multiply in the 35-degrees Celsius manure culture so as to place our moral stench on the world map.
I don’t know if anyone comprehends. I don’t know if I want anyone to comprehend at all.
Scandals are what we move on from all the time, sometimes from one intoxicating scandal to another addictive scam, but we are constitutionally obliged forgive the almighty powers for the greater good of humanity.
I move from Paris to Berlin, from Taipei to Beijing, wondering when the great walls at home will fall. Before or after me?
We love to be stroked, lovingly caressed with a few regrettable extra strokes accentuating the barbaric, masturbatory tenderness gazing at us, protecting us from everything but itself.
Citizenship is a slow-acting assassin by the name of Death Sentence.
I dial 911 on National Day to book a salvation ticket.
"The number you've dialed does not exist." Not for me anyway.
Happy Cosmopolitan National Day.